


Hiding in Plain Sight

by savorvrymoment



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Dialogue Heavy, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Surveillance, or stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-02 01:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16776814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: Steve finds him accidentally, five years after the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D...He tells himself he’s not actually stalking Bucky.  He just wants to be sure the other man is truly okay.  That he’s taking good care of himself.  That he’s not doing anything stupid.  That he's happy...There hasn’t been a trace of Hydra in two years.  They’d gone through every last base and safehouse and left nothing behind.  He, Nat, and Sam, with the aid of Tony’s technology and funding...I’ll leave in the morning, Steve tells himself.  I can’t keep doing this.  I’m just torturing myself.  This is wrong...





	1. Part 1

Steve finds him accidentally, five years after the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D.

He’d almost given up on it, wondering if Bucky had actually died due to the helicarrier crash after all. Yes, he’d pulled Steve from the water, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t walked away with fatal injuries. Doesn’t mean he hadn’t suffered internal trauma even his own enhanced body couldn’t heal. Doesn’t mean he hadn’t lain down somewhere quiet after the crash and drew his last breath. 

Steve has almost made peace with this. He, Sam, and even Nat haven’t been able to locate him, so it’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Sure, they haven’t found a body, but Steve figures that’s almost par for the course when it comes to Bucky. There wasn’t a body the first time, why would there be one this time?

But then five years later, he’s driving through construction in upstate New York to get back to his Brooklyn apartment. He’s been away for a few days trailing a suspicious group of men that turned out to be nothing, and he’s in a less than stellar mood. He has the air-conditioning in his car turned up to max in the sweltering mid-summer heat. He just wants to be back in the comfort of his own home, back to his own shower and his own bed, but traffic is stopped dead because of the construction, so who knows when that’ll actually happen?

He stares unthinkingly out the window, and watches as one of the workers pauses where he’s operating a jackhammer. The man’s back is turned to him, and Steve takes a moment to guiltily admire his broad back and shoulders, and the way his ass looks as he bends down to lay the jackhammer on the cement. 

He shouldn’t be looking. Even if Bucky is gone, he’s still _it_ for Steve. His best guy, his one and only. Yeah, he’s never been with anyone else—not so much as kissed anyone else, much less slept with anyone else. And just looking at this other man feels like cheating.

Then, the man shrugs out of the long-sleeved flannel shirt he’s wearing, leaving only a thin white wifebeater and his black work gloves. He takes the shirt and wipes the sweat from his face before tossing it at a nearby bucket with his left arm. The midday sun glints off the metal prosthesis as he moves.

Steve’s foot slips off the brake, and he comes a half inch away from rear-ending the car in front of him. 

It’s Bucky, definitely Bucky, and Steve wonders how he didn’t recognize him immediately. That’s Bucky broad back and shoulders, Bucky’s tight ass—if anyone should recognize it, _Steve_ should. The long hair Steve had seen on the Soldier is pulled up off his neck into a bun, still as dark as ever. And when he turns around to face the road, reaching for a bottle of water, Steve gets a brief look at the scruff on his pretty face. 

Steve wants to jump out of the car and run over to him. Wants to scream at him, rale at him for hiding, and in plain damn sight at that! Who did he think he was? Didn’t they have something special? Maybe they’d buried it, maybe they’d… They’d never said it, too aware of what society said they were supposed to feel and too afraid of what they’d actually felt. Maybe Steve had pranced around with Peggy, and Bucky with any girl he could get to hang off his arm, but still… 

_Still…_

He wants to jump out of the car and hug him, tell him how _happy_ he is to see him like this. Doing honest work, looking gorgeous sweating in the summer sun, his throat working as he drinks from his water bottle— _yes, darlin’, stay hydrated, it’s hot as hell out here…_

One of the other workers comes over, batting at the water in Bucky’s hand. A bit spills down the front of Bucky’s tank, and the other man laughs while Bucky shoves at him playfully. _Coworkers, friends_ , Steve thinks, unable to keep the happy smile off his face. And Steve watches for a few more moments while Bucky points at the pavement in front of him, brow furrowing as he speaks, and the other man nods thoughtfully, rubbing at his chin.

The two are still discussing whatever issue they’re having with the concrete when the traffic lurches forward, and Steve is forced to move on. And Steve knows deep down he should leave the man alone, let him move forward with this new life he has built for himself. He is clearly not that Soldier Steve had met on the bridge and on the helicarrier, not anymore. He has a job now, has friends, assumedly has a house or apartment, maybe even has a partner, a pretty girl or handsome boy to go home to at night. He is trying to leave the past eighty-years behind him…

Steve stares at the two men in the rearview mirror, watches as the other worker claps Bucky on his flesh shoulder and watches as Bucky picks the jackhammer back up and continues to work. He swallows, and unable to stop himself, picks up his cellphone. He dials Sam’s number, and tells him he’s spending a few more days out of town to visit with a friend. 

Sam sighs on the other line, and clearly not buying it, says, “Okay, man. But if you need anything, you call one of us.”

“Of course,” Steve says, worried for a moment that Sam suspects. But then…

“Don’t go off half-cocked,” Sam adds. “At least make sure you’ve got it under control. Don’t die.”

Steve actually laughs. “I’m not going to die, don’t worry,” he answers, and smiles at Sam’s irritated sigh on the other side.

~*~

Steve checks in at a local hotel, and then tells himself he’s not actually stalking Bucky. He just wants to be sure the other man is truly okay. That he’s taking good care of himself. That he’s not doing anything stupid. 

That he’s _happy_.

Steve sets up shop the next day in the little deli across the street. There’s no coffee shop near enough to stay with eyesight, but the plain coffee in the deli is good, light and sweet with a bit of milk and sugar. He sits himself down at a table inside by the windows facing the street. He can easily see the construction and Bucky from his vantage point. He keeps his sunglasses on and his baseball cap pulled down low, and alternates between reading the newspaper and watching Bucky work. 

He almost shits himself when, at about noon, Bucky and three other workers take a break, cross the street, and walk into the deli. They walk right in front of him, but civilian life must be softening Bucky’s honed observation skills. Bucky doesn’t even glance his way, just laughs at something one of the other men has said before smiling at the woman behind the deli counter.

It’s the same brilliant, charming smile he used to turn on women in the 30’s and 40’s, the sort that would have them swooning and melting. The effect now is the same—though she does have four handsome, sweaty men all built like brick shithouses walking into her shop. Steve can objectively understand the goofy smile spreading across her face.

“Hey, boys!” she calls. “You all want your usual?”

“Yes, pretty please,” one of the men says, quite obviously flirting. The woman giggles, blushing as she turns to begin making sandwiches. 

“Thank you, Miss June,” Bucky speaks up. “You’re a doll.”

And Steve might think Bucky was flirting as well, if he didn’t know that’s just how the man acted around pretty women. It didn’t necessarily mean he was looking for anything.

“Aww, James,” June says, smirking at Bucky. “You just don’t know me very well.”

The other three men all loudly ‘ooo!’ at that statement, but Bucky just grins at her in amusement. 

“So, how are you feeling today, sweetheart?” she asks, glancing up at Bucky. The endearment catches Steve a bit off-guard. Maybe he’d been wrong. It had never _used_ to mean Bucky was looking for anything, but that was so long ago. Things change…

Is this his girl? Or at least, does he _want_ her to be his girl?

But Bucky just shrugs at her, and answers, “Oh, you know, another day, more aches and pains. What’s new?”

“You need to see a doctor,” she answers, wrapping up the first sandwich and pushing it over.

“We tell him that every damn day,” one of the workers says, a big man with a bald head. “I figure he’ll eventually go when pigs fly. I’m waiting for the day.”

June sighs. “I know you’re concerned about the… _situation_ ,” she says, gesturing vaguely at his arm. It’s covered back up now with a different flannel shirt, black and green plaid today. Still, Bucky rotates his shoulder uncomfortably at her words, and Steve can hear the gears working in the appendage from where he’s sitting. June finishes, “But I really think you’re making a mountain out of a mole hill. They can recommend the right kind of physical therapy, can prescribe medication if you need it…”

Steve wonders what he’s told people about his ‘situation’. Surely not the truth. 

One of the other workers, a few inches shorter than Bucky with messy blond hair, says, “Or at least go to that massage place down on Fifth. They’d help with your back.”

“I hear they give ‘happy endings’ down there, too,” the third worker adds. He’s tall and thin with his hair buzzed down the sides and long on top. The other workers laugh at him, while Bucky just smirks and rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, please. James is too much of a gentleman for that kind of thing,” June says, finishing up the second sandwich and pushing it across. Bucky grabs it up with a quiet, ‘thank you, ma’am’. 

_Gentleman, indeed_ , Steve thinks. 

“Well, he at least needs to put himself out there. Go on a few dates,” the blond worker says. “Tons of pretty girls out there.”

“Yeah,” the tall, thin one pipes up, bumping Bucky’s flesh shoulder. “I bet you’d feel loads better if you just got laid…”

“Dude,” Bucky says, frowning. And Steve can practically hear him even though he doesn’t voice it. _We’re in public, there’s a lady present, don’t be inappropriate._

God, he loves that man.

“You know,” June says, sharing a knowing look with Bucky. “Sex isn’t everything.”

And Steve isn’t sure what to make of that look, especially when two of the workers guffaw at her, one managing to say through his laughter, “Sure, June, sure…”

But then the big worker next to Bucky reaches over and pats him on the shoulder, supportive and… Almost consoling? Bucky glances at him, then bumps shoulders with him, and Steve suddenly understands. He’d read Bucky’s Hydra files from front to back, and he knows what sort of abuse they inflicted on him to break him, can only imagine what they’d done to him ‘just for fun’ that hadn’t been documented. When he’d began to read that information, sitting on the couch in his then-new Brooklyn apartment, his stomach had churned and he’d had to jump up and run to the bathroom. Had heaved his guts out into the new, clean toilet.

He realizes that Bucky must have confided in these two people, has found close friends he’s comfortable enough to talk to. To talk about his trauma with, about what he’s been through—or at least some amount of it, Steve still wonders what exactly he’s told them about his situation. 

Still, being able to talk has to be therapeutic. It’s healthy. He’s trying to heal. He’s trying to move on. 

Steve is _so happy_ for him. 

June hands the fourth sandwich over, and the last worker snatches it up before they all head down to the register. At least, all except Bucky. June reaches over the counter to catch him, waving her hand to get his attention, and he leans over toward her. For a split second Steve thinks they’re going to share a quick kiss, but instead June whispers something to him, too quiet for Steve to catch. 

Bucky’s grinning softly when he leans back, and he answers, “I try, doll. I try.”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” she says, heading down to the register to ring them up.

They all grab chips and sodas, then argue over whose turn it is to pay. Bucky insists it’s his turn, but the big bald man refuses to accept that. Bucky eventually gives up, tucking his wallet back into the rear pocket of his jeans and grumbling to himself. And then he turns back toward the front getting ready to leave, and looks right at Steve.

Steve quickly covers his face with the newspaper, doing his best to look nonchalant even as he’s panicking. He’s just been caught, he _knows_ it.

Unbelievably, all four men leave the deli without a word to Steve. And Steve doesn’t look up from his paper until Bucky is far across the street, sitting on the curb with the others eating. Bucky isn’t looking at him, is busy with his sandwich, and Steve heart warms as he watches him laugh at something one of the other men said. 

And he should leave. He knows he should. Bucky seems to be doing well, seems to be happy, and Steve doesn’t want to ruin what he has by showing up out of the blue. By making him feel he’s been ‘caught’, that he’s in danger and needs to run.

He just almost saw Steve. It was way too close.

Steve waits until they all go back to work before relocating down the street to the Barnes n’ Noble. He sets up in the magazine section by the window, and he doesn’t have as good of a view as in the deli, but he can see well enough. 

He can see well enough to know when they get started packing up to leave.

~*~

He shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong. He’s better than this. 

He loves this man, hadn’t even realized how much he still loves him until now, seeing him like this. Eighty-years after he’d lost him the first time, five-years after he’d lost him the second time. He’s no longer a soldier, no longer _the_ Soldier. He’s just James Buchanan Barnes. The down-to-earth, kindhearted, hardworking boy-turned-man Steve had known before the war.

Though a part of Steve is still worried. It had seemed like the man isn’t healthy. His friends had been trying to get him to see a doctor for what sounded like chronic pain. Steve can only imagine _why_ —the weight of the metal arm alone probably causes back problems. But Steve also knows from the Hydra files how many injuries he sustained in the field. Gunshot wounds, a broken hip, multiple cracked ribs, and Steve forgets how many times he dislocated the flesh-and-bone shoulder. Plus, the sheer amount of electroshock treatments he’d endured…

Steve loves, and Steve worries.

Bucky piles into an old, beat-up Ford truck just after six, after fist-bumping a few coworkers in farewell and sharing a brotherly hug with the big, bald man. Bucky seems to be closest to him, Steve thinks. Steve’s glad.

He follows Bucky’s truck away from the construction, sure to tail him with several cars between them. Ten minutes later, Bucky pulls into a group of apartment buildings at the edge of the city, and so Steve pulls into the parking lot across the street and kills the engine. 

Bucky climbs out of the truck and then stretches, arms to the sky and then down toward the pavement, before grabbing his water bottle out of the truck and locking it up. Steve watches him disappear into a stairwell, and he thinks at that point that he’s lost him. He waits, and waits a bit more, having no way of knowing which apartment the other man is in. 

It occurs to him suddenly just how inappropriate he’s being, sitting outside of this man’s apartment building trying to figure out where he lives and what he’s doing. He shakes his head, silently scolding himself, and reaches for the keys to start the car again.

The lights come on in a second story loft, thin curtains covering the sliding glass door leading out to a small balcony. Steve can’t see _him_ , but he can see his silhouette puttering around inside, doing this and doing that. And then Steve watches him pull his shirts off over his head, tossing them out of sight, before his hands go to his belt and flies. He steps out of sight before he finishing undressing, probably heading for the shower, and Steve swallows thickly, his mouth dry. 

He still loves, and he still _wants_. 

He shouldn’t be doing this.

Steve watches a small animal meander around the apartment while Bucky’s in the shower. It looks like a cat, and it stays by the sliding glass door as though expecting to be let out onto the balcony. It keeps Steve there, hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of Bucky opening up the door for his pet. 

Bucky does him one better.

He comes out onto the balcony after finishing his shower, all wet hair and loose sweatpants and a flannel shirt opened in the front. The little white cat jumps up onto the railing as Bucky shuts the door behind them and turns the balcony light on. It’s a muted light, but it still makes the man easier to see in the darkening evening, casts a shadow at his collar and down his sternum.

Bucky settles himself down on the patio chair with a glass of wine and a book, and the cat gracefully jumps from the railing into his lap. He sets his wine aside on the patio table to pet the cat, then reaches into the pocket of his flannel to produce a pack of cigarettes. 

Steve watches with a frown as the man pulls a lighter out as well, shakes a cig out of the pack, and then lights up. And damn, it shouldn’t be sexy to watch him lean back in the chair, spreading his knees and tipping his head back in relaxation. The smoke swirls up strangely beautiful when he exhales. 

_It’s not the 30’s anymore, darlin’. Smoking’ll kill you_ , Steve thinks. Though he supposes it’s a miracle they’re both alive in the first place. 

Steve stays for a good thirty minutes, watching Bucky read his book and smoke and drink his wine. He wonders if the other man actually gets anything out of the nicotine and alcohol, if he can still feel the effects of such substances even with whatever serums he was given. He had before Steve had let him fall from that train, but who knows what else has been pumped into his body since.

Maybe it’s the just act of smoking itself that he enjoys, the taste of the wine. He only finishes the one glass of wine, and just smokes the one cigarette. He’s clearly not _trying_ to get anything out of it. He just sits and reads his book in the quiet of the night, and affectionately pets his cat where it sits primly on his left thigh.

It doesn’t pass Steve’s attention that there is no ‘pretty girl’ or ‘handsome boy’ in the apartment with him. That knowledge makes butterflies flutter around in his stomach. 

Eventually, he pulls his baseball cap down firmly and starts his car back up. He pulls back out and onto the road heading back toward his hotel and doesn’t look back. 

He’ll return to Brooklyn tomorrow. He shouldn’t be doing this. 

He spends the majority of the next morning sitting in June’s deli, watching Bucky work across the street and silently berating himself for being a bastard.

~*~

Bucky doesn’t go back to his apartment after work that day. Instead, he changes his shirts by his truck, trades the sweaty wifebeater and flannel for a clean t-shirt and flannel, before piling into his truck and following a couple of the other guys down the road. 

Steve grins to himself, wondering if the man has stock in flannel button-downs, before following the group down the road like the utter fool that he is. 

They stop at a sports bar with poor parking, and Steve watches in amusement as it takes Bucky a good three tries to get his F-250 parallel parked. Steve can hear them both now, in a different situation in a different life…

_Maybe you should try parking in the rear._

_Shut up, punk._

_Just saying, jerk._

The two guys he’s followed have gotten out and are waiting for him by the time he’s parked, and they razz him as he climbs up onto the sidewalk. The big, bald man puts his hand on the top of Bucky’s head, messing up his bun, and Bucky shoves him good-naturedly before they disappear into the bar.

And then Steve can’t see him anymore.

He should leave, just drive back to Brooklyn now. If he stays at the hotel again tonight, he will end up back at the deli in the morning. And there is no way he can go into that bar without being seen. 

But he’s a hopeless idiot who has found his love again, and so he throws on a windbreaker and pulls down his baseball cap before getting out of the car. He’s wearing sunglasses at night, which he hopes isn’t _too_ conspicuous. Still, he thinks he’s done a fairly good job of hiding his identity. 

Bucky and his friends are at the bar ordering beers when Steve lets himself in, and no one looks his way. So he settles himself down in the booth tucked into the corner, and orders whatever’s on tap when a young waitress comes by. 

The bar is crowded and loud, and Steve can’t hear what the other men are saying. Bucky is grinning over the rim of his beer, though, listening in interest to his friends’ conversation. 

There are different games playing on different screens around the bar, though the three men are focused on the one directly in front of them behind the bar. Their talk dwindles, and they sit in companionable silence watching the game. The other two men order a second and then a third beer. Bucky finishes his one beer, then just gets a soda. Steve watches the bartender make it—it’s just a plain Coke, no rum shots. 

Steve can see when Bucky begins to fade. It’s still early, just before nine, when the man begins to slump on his barstool. By nine-thirty, he’s got both elbows leaned on the bartop with his head propped up on his hands. While his flannel covers his arms, he’s ditched his work gloves, and the metal of his hand takes on a bronzed hue in the hazy bar lighting. 

Bucky’s friend seems to notice he’s wilting on them, and Steve watches as the big man pats Bucky on the back before gesturing at the door. The two have a brief conversation involving Bucky stubbornly shaking his head and his friend gesturing at the door once again, before his friend seems to realize he’s not going to win and gives up. 

Bucky caves thirty minutes later. He stands from the barstool and throws down some cash onto the bar with a nod to the bartender. But instead of heading for the exit, he turns toward the back of the bar, toward Steve. 

Steve ducks his head and stares down into his drink as Bucky seems to walk right at him. Though he turns at the last moment, just when Steve is sure he’s been caught, and ducks into the men’s room. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. 

Of course, he just needs to take a leak before heading home. Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly understandable. He’s had a beer and a couple of Cokes. Even super soldiers have to pee…

Steve puts some cash down on the table and leaves quickly while Bucky’s in the bathroom. He manages to get out of the bar, into his car, and pull out into traffic before Bucky leaves. But when he glances in the rearview mirror, he sees Bucky stepping out onto the sidewalk fiddling with his keys. The lights on his truck flash as he unlocks it and then climbs inside. 

_I’ll leave in the morning_ , Steve tells himself. _I can’t keep doing this._

_I’m just torturing myself._

_This is wrong._

~*~

Ten o’clock the next morning, and he’s sitting by the window in June’s deli once again. 

However, Bucky is not at the construction site across the street. It has Steve frightened at first: is Bucky ill? Is he in too much pain to work? But then Steve realizes that it’s a Friday, and it’s completely plausible that Bucky just doesn’t work today. 

Still, he stares out the window, forgetting for long lengths of time about his front of reading the newspaper, and imagines worse and worse scenarios. Bucky in his bed, suffering and in pain. Bucky on the floor in the bathroom, hanging over the commode. Or crap—Steve remembers mentions in his Hydra files of seizures during the electroshock treatments. Could that have been a permanent effect, something he still suffers from now?

What if, what if, what if…?

_Get a grip, Steve, it’s just his day off._

“Can I get you anything else?” 

Steve’s jerked from his thoughts by the question, and he glances up to find June looking at him. The shop is empty save for them both, and she’s wiping down the table closest to him. He answers, “No, thank you, ma’am. I was just about to leave.”

“Mmm,” she replies. Then, “You know, you’re very bad at your job.”

That brings Steve up short, but before he can formulate a response, she’s continuing:

“And before you try anything, I just want you to know that he installed security cameras and taught me to shoot after the first time you lot came in here.” And she’s talking about Bucky, Steve knows she is. That is Bucky through and through. Though he still doesn’t understand.

“Ma’am, I don’t…” he begins, though trails off as she straightens and reaches behind herself. Reaches toward the back of her jeans. She’s armed. Steve raises his hands in a placating gesture, and she shakes her head, tsking.

“Russia’s not sending us their best, are they?” she asks him, then chuckles at her own joke. And finally, “Sir, I really think you should leave. If I see you again, I’ll call the police.”

And Steve’s stomach has sunk to his feet. Russia? That’s… that’s impossible. There hasn’t been a trace of Hydra in two years. They’d gone through every last base and safehouse and left nothing behind. He, Nat, and Sam, with the aid of Tony’s technology and funding. 

“Wait,” he says desperately, leaning toward her, and he watches as her hand reaches even further behind herself. He keeps his hands firmly in the air, and asks, “There have been agents from Russia after him?”

June smirks, shaking her head. “Bad at your job,” she repeats. Then, “There’s no way he hasn’t noticed you, by the way. You’re insane if you think a special-ops agent hasn’t noticed you camping out here for the past two mornings.”

And God, what if he _has_ noticed. But then why hasn’t he…?

So Bucky’s told these people he was special-ops. Probably told them he was a POW, had gotten the arm removed and replaced while he was captured, cruel experimentation. Believable, not too far-fetched. Steve can work with that.

“I’m a friend—was a friend,” Steve tells her, watches as she continues to frown. She doesn’t believe him, so he doubles down. “We were both special-ops. I was there when he was captured—our higher ups all told us he died. That they found his dog tags.”

Her frown is starting to soften, and her hand leaves her back. _Too gullible_ , he thinks _. She’d be dead if I really was a Hydra agent._ But for all intents and purposes, she’s buying his bullshit, and he’s _so_ damn happy. He lowers his hands.

“We were tipped off a few months ago,” he says. “The government has kept it under wraps that he’d been found and brought back. But there’s talk now about the rogue organization that had him in the first place. It’s resurfacing. And he’s in danger. He’s carrying a million-some dollars’ worth of their tech around with him.”

June stares at him for a long time. Steve wonders for a moment if she’s recognized him, even with the sunglasses and baseball cap and windbreaker. But then she just collapses down into the chair across from him, tossing her cleaning rag down on the table in front of him, and asks, “We’re talking about James, right? James Barnes? You have to be.”

 _Didn’t even use a different last name. Jesus, Bucky…_ “Yeah,” Steve says, frowning. “Were you talking about someone else?”

“No, definitely James,” she says, her tone turning angry. “It’s taken you people long enough, Jesus! He’s been out here dodging these idiots for a good four years, and you’ve just now noticed something’s going on? What are you? FBI? CIA?”

“Classified,” Steve says, and figuratively pats himself on the back for how quickly and naturally that lie came out. 

“Ugh, you’re worse that he is. Freaking _classified_. ‘Can’t tell you, you don’t want to know anyway.’ I’m just like—James, I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.” She sighs, rubbing her forehead. Then, “He scares me to death.”

Steve thinks briefly of Bucky in the mask, on the bridge and on the street. Of Bucky in the helicarrier, of the crunch of bone and cartilage as that metal fist connected with his face. But then he thinks of Bucky the other day, calling this woman ‘Miss June’, grinning as he talked with his coworkers, relaxing on his balcony with his book and his cat…

“I don’t think you need to be scared of him,” Steve tells her.

“Oh, geeze, I know. That’s not what I meant,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s just—he’s going to get himself killed one of these days.”

Steve sighs. “It’s a miracle he’s still alive,” he says, and that’s the God’s honest truth. 

She nods, before cocking her head to the side. “You know, you should talk to him. I’m sure he’d love that. I mean, you said you were special-ops with him? Back then…”

Steve’s already shaking his head. “That’s not a good idea.”

But she doesn’t stop. “I mean, he’s close to Larry. Larry’s a vet, too, and I know they’ve talked. It’s good for them both, I think. And he’ll always have me. We have coffee sometimes, and I make sure he gets a homecooked meal every once in a while. Otherwise, I think he’d live off bologna sandwiches and Hot Pockets…”

Steve finds himself chuckling at that, wondering all the while at this woman. Is she Bucky’s girl? Just because they don’t live together doesn’t necessarily mean…

“But talking to someone who was there with him,” she finishes. “I think that’s different. That’d be good for him. _Really_ good.”

“I—I don’t want to bring everything back,” Steve says _. Like the actual FBI, the actual CIA_ , Steve thinks. Bucky’s somehow managed to slide right under their radar. The last thing the man needs is for Steve to bring them right to his door. He’s freaking _Captain America_ , they’ll be on his tail as soon as they notice something is amiss. 

She shakes her head with a droll smile. “Oh, honey. You say that like it doesn’t all hang over his head every damn day.”

He swallows. “He’s made a life here for himself,” he tries. “He’s moving on. At least trying to. He doesn’t need to have the past dug back up.”

“Then what exactly are you doing here?” she counters, frowning.

And isn’t that the sixty-four dollar question. “Ensuring his safety, and hopefully finding a lead,” Steve lies smoothly. “Beyond that, I can’t tell you.”

“You’re out here alone?”

Steve clears his throat. “Until I need back-up,” he answers, truthfully enough.

June is quiet for a long time at that, so long that Steve has no idea why. But then she says, “You’re not actually CIA or FBI, are you? You’re the _friend_ from the war.”

Steve is floored. God, what on Earth has Bucky told these people? “P-pardon?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes and gives him a wry grin. “He’s still hung up on you, you know…”

She’s interrupted as the door chimes behind her and a couple of customers enter the shop. She grabs up her rag and stands, but before she turns to go back to work, she leans in close and says, “I close up here at nine. Come back then. I’ll tell you what I can—hopefully it’ll help.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, folding his paper back up and standing. “Thank you.”

~*~

Steve begins to wonder as he heads back to the deli that night. Either June is the most gullible woman in the world, or he’s walking into some sort of trap…

He shows up and parallel parks outside the shop, leaving his shield in the trunk, the trunk unlocked for easy access. He almost expects to walk into the deli and find a team of Hydra agents waiting for him. Or to walk inside and find Bucky waiting for him—either just his Bucky, or the Bucky with a semi-automatic and a hardened stare. Either one seems plausible.

But apparently June is just incredibly trusting. Steve almost wants to turn around, find Bucky, and tell the man to quit telling this woman _anything_. She might have a good heart, but she’s going to expose him without ever meaning to. 

Regardless, he sits down at his usual table and takes the cup of decaf that she offers him. She locks the doors of the shop before settling down across from him with her own cup, then smiles gently. “So,” she begins. “You’re the _friend_?”

Steve swallows. Of course this is where she’s going to start. And he thinks for a moment of trying to divert the conversation. Reminding her that he needs information about the agents who have been trying to get to Bucky. But then… “What-what exactly has he told you about that?” Steve tries. “I don’t want to betray his trust.”

She’s smiling at him so knowingly. “You don’t want to betray his trust, and you haven’t seen him in how many years?”

 _The Bucky that you know?_ Steve thinks _. Nearly eighty-years._ But he answers, “About five.”

“Mmm,” she says, nodding. “I don’t want to betray his trust either. So I’ll give you the reader’s digest.”

Steve nods, and she continues. 

“I want to preface this by saying that nothing happened—in fact, I’m pretty sure nothing’s happened with anyone. He would have told me. Probably.” Steve’s stomach roils, wondering where this story is going. She says, “I just don’t want you to think that… I get the impression he was, you know, pretty special to you.”

“He was,” Steve answers, then amends. “He _is_.”

“Yeah, you come out here and sit around keeping an eye on him,” she says. “Kinda sweet, kinda creepy…”

“I was hoping I’d find something, see something suspicious,” he lies. Then, an easy truth, “Turns out, I’m just driving myself crazy.”

“Go talk to him,” June says, her tone almost pleading. “He misses you.”

Steve sighs, then can’t help himself. He really doesn’t need to know, but it will help with his own lie if he knows what Bucky has been saying. At least, that’s the excuse he tells himself. “You were saying?” he starts. “Nothing happened…”

“Yeah,” she says, and she blushes. It’s just a small thing, her cheeks going rosy, but it’s still there. “I tried with him about a year after I met him, once he was doing a little bit better. I mean, sue me—he’s so sweet and just, a complete gentleman. Still treats a woman like a lady. You rarely see that anymore.”

Steve grins a bit. _You’re dealing with a man from a different age, ma’am_ , he thinks, though of course doesn’t voice this. 

“And well,” she adds, her blush deepening, “the arm was a little off-putting at first, but he’s still… I guess I don’t have to tell you what he looks like, ha.”

“No,” Steve says, and it’s his turn to blush now. 

“But I’d made him dinner, and we were watching a movie after. And I tried, I fucking tried _hard_ to get something to happen. But it was pretty obvious after a while nothing was gonna happen…” She pauses frowning. “I shouldn’t have told you that part. When you talk to him, don’t tell him I told you that. He’ll be pissed. Or mortified, one.”

“Both,” Steve answers, and can only imagine how embarrassed Bucky must have been at the time. 

He doesn’t even notice June had used the phrase ‘when you talk to him’ as opposed to ‘if you talk to him.’

“Anyway,” she continues, idly gesturing with her hand. “He told me about you afterward. Or, you know, his _friend_. Sat and sobbed on my couch for twenty-minutes—it’s the only time I’ve ever seen him cry, even after everything he’s gone through. He was pretty explicit about everything at the time, too, I don’t think he meant to tell me everything he did.”

Steve frowns, suddenly very worried about what Bucky may have given away about his past. “Like what?”

June continues with a shake of her head. “Just how much he missed you. He suffered a lot while he was a prisoner, the arm aside. A lot of it is personal, I’m sure he’ll talk to you when…”

“I have his files,” Steve interrupts. “His—” _Hydra_ “—Special-ops files that detail what they did to him.”

The look she gives him is utterly heartbroken. “So you know—you know everything. You probably know more than I do.”

“Maybe,” he admits. “I don’t know what exactly he told you.”

“Just… Some of the things they’d done to him while they had him,” she says, staying purposely facetious. “He had a lot of guilt at the time for what happened. And for still wanting you after. We’ve had long talks about it all since. I just try to always remind him that it wasn’t his fault, and that love and sex is different than what they did to him. That he shouldn’t feel guilty.”

 _And you only have half the story_ , Steve thinks. _But still, **none** of it was his fault. That wasn’t him. He shouldn’t feel guilty._

“Time heals, though. He has more good days than bad now. And the bad aren’t as bad as they used to be,” she says, then shakes her head. “I’ve tried to get him to see a therapist. Just about as many times as I’ve tried to get him to see a doctor. But he’s stubborn as a bull.”

“Sounds about right,” Steve answers, unable to keep from grinning at that description. 

“So he’s always been that way, huh?” she asks with a grin, and Steve laughs.

“Yeah, we butted heads from time to time. He seemed to think _I_ was the stubborn one.”

“So he’s said,” she replies.

Steve swallows. He could sit here all night asking about how Bucky’s been doing and prying more stories out of this woman. He feels infinitely closer to Bucky now, just having heard what small bit of intimate information June has shared with him. But he came here for a reason…

It will ruin him if Bucky falls prey to Hydra. Again. 

“So,” he begins, running a finger around the rim of his coffee cup. “I need to know whatever you know about this group that’s after him. You said it’s been happening for how many years?”

She scoffs. “Four years. You military folk are a little late on the uptake—though I’m feeling more and more like this is a personal mission for you.”

Steve takes a deep breath, and says, “Classified.”

“Oh, indeed.”

Steve bites his lip, and continues, “Anything you can tell me might help me pick up a lead, give me something to go on.”

“I’ll tell you what I know. But honestly? James can tell you much more than I can,” she says. “He actually knows about these people, knows how they operate. I’ve only see them approach him once—which was plenty, trust me. I hope I never have to see it again.”

“What happened?” Steve asks.

“Mmm, it was when he first started working with that construction company, and they were doing some sort of overnight repair work in Albany. I opened up right about the time he got off—very, very early—and I’d make him some decaf and a quick breakfast to take home.” She pauses for a breath. Jesus, Steve thinks, this woman can talk. “No one ever came in that early, except James. But then this one morning, this guy comes in a couple minutes after him and throws this… _thing_ at him. It hit the outside of his arm, the electronic one, and made a horrible noise. Like squealing. And James fell.”

“He fell?” Steve asks, frowning.

“Yeah,” she confirms. “I mean, not unconscious. But the arm stopped working or something, and the weight just dragged him to the floor.”

 _So they knew exactly what they were doing_ , Steve thinks. _Not good._

“And then the man comes over and shoves a syringe into the side of James’ neck. I’m fucking panicking… I had a baseball bat behind the counter for emergencies. So I grab it, go to run around the counter, but the guy pulls a gun on me, says something in a foreign language. Russian. I don’t speak Russian…”

She continues. “So the guy tries to drag James out of here, but he has a hard time. I think the weight of the arm along with his body was too much? I dunno. And whatever he’d injected James with had made him loopy. He wasn’t moving at all, wasn’t trying to fight the guy. But it took him a while to drag James over to the door—and then the arm started back up. You could fucking _hear_ it…” 

She finishes. “The guy panicked, shot James in the leg, which got him moving. It was—violent. I hadn’t realized that that was what the arm was for. I guess I should have. He reached up and just squeezed the guy’s leg. Every bone broke, just crunched up under his fist. I’ll never forget that sound. Guy was screaming bloody-murder. Turned and crawled out of my shop—didn’t even try anymore after that.”

“He got away?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, I let him go. I was too worried about James, I didn’t even think,” she says, shaking her head. “I tried to call 911, but he wouldn’t let me. Begged me not to. Said he couldn’t, I dunno… I think maybe he’s afraid of hospitals, after everything. My sister’s a nurse, though, so I called her. She took him back to her place, got the bullet out of his leg and stitched him up. Kept an eye on him. He was fine by the end of the day, though. Aside from the leg wound. My sister thought he’d been given some sort of sedative, that that’s what had been in the syringe. Once he slept it off, he came right around.”

So this branch of Hydra knows about Bucky, but obviously underestimated him. They apparently hadn’t realized how fast the arm would recalibrate. And Lord knows it takes more than a sedative to keep a super soldier down. Steve clarifies, “So they’ve been trying to take him alive?”

“I dunno,” she says with a frown. “They shot him about a year ago. Best I could figure out, he was sitting out on his balcony and someone got him with a sniper rifle. It was in his gut. To this day, I don’t know how he survived. He called my sister—she’s become his go-to whenever he needs medical help, which is too often if you ask me. Anyway, apparently she got there and told him he needed to go to the hospital, that his bowel was perforated. But he’s all, you know, _no hospitals_ …”

June sighs, running her hands over her face. “I swear, we both sat by his bedside all night waiting for him to die. Mandy—my sister—she was so pissed off. Kept calling him an idiot, even after he was unconscious. I just cried like a baby. But then he wakes up the next morning. Starts to heal. Took him a good week or so, but…” She pauses, shaking her head. “Mandy said it should have killed him, that there was no reasonable explanation that it didn’t. But I dunno, is there is reasonable explanation for the arm? Nothing about him makes sense…”

And Steve has to bite his lip to keep from screaming. “Do you think they were shooting to kill, or…?

“That’s what I’m saying, I don’t know,” she answers. “Maybe they were just trying to disable him so they could get to him? But then why didn’t they? Take him, that is? I don’t know.”

Steve grunts. This is just raising more questions.

“Talk to him. He knows more. He refuses to tell us things. ‘For our own safety,’ he says.” She rolls her eyes. “The man gives me apoplexy. Please talk to him. At least find out what’s going on. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep at night again.”

“I-I might have to,” Steve muses.

“He misses you,” she reminds him. “A lot.”

“I miss him, too,” he admits softly. 

She smiles at him, gentle and kind, before standing. “Let me get you another decaf for the road,” she says, heading back behind the counter.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh please,” she tells him, shaking her head with a rueful smile. “It’s on the house.”


	2. Part 2

Steve goes back to the hotel after talking with June and weighs his options. 

He needs help here, because while there is clearly something afoot, Steve has nothing to go on aside from _‘Hydra’s not completely gone, and they’ve been spotted in upstate New York trying to capture and/or kill Bucky Barnes.’_ And while they’ve been spotted out here, who knows where they’re actually located, where they have a base or safehouse. Or how many bases and safehouses they even have. Or how many agents are involved. Are they operating under the radar, or do they already have ties to government officials?

Steve has a bad feeling in gut, what with all of the nationalist and white power sentiment that has been spreading throughout the country. Though if Hydra has already infiltrated the government, then it makes no sense that they haven’t already broken down Bucky’s door and dragged him out by his hair. 

He thinks about calling Sam and Natasha. Maybe, just maybe, they will listen to him and not give away Bucky’s location. If it was anyone else in question, Steve would risk it.

But this is Bucky, and Steve’s not willing to risk it.

Calling them and leaving Bucky out of his explanation isn’t an option either. It’s basically leaving out half of the story. Steve’s sure they will figure it out anyway, even if he doesn’t tell them. Especially Natasha. She’ll know Bucky’s there before she even leaves Avengers’ Headquarters.

It all leaves him only one option. He’s going to have to talk to Bucky. 

He sleeps on that one, trying to figure out the best way to approach him, both for Bucky’s safety and his own. He might know where Bucky’s apartment building is, but he doesn’t actually have a room number. And even if he were able to find out, he feels like just showing up without warning will earn him a faceful of Glock. If Bucky’s been continuously attacked, Steve’s sure he’s armed to the teeth in there. He probably has a weapon hidden under every available surface.

Steve really doesn’t want to get shot. He also really doesn’t want to have to fight Bucky again…

He thinks about asking June to set up a meeting. To ask Bucky to be at a certain place at a certain time, and to tell him that his friend Steve will be there to meet him. However, he’s afraid this might raise more questions than he’s prepared to answer. He’s also pretty sure Bucky wouldn’t show, would maybe even consider running. 

He may be Steve Rogers, his best friend, but he’s also Captain America, former S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent, current Avenger. The Soldier had almost killed Steve. The Soldier is a wanted man. The Soldier fought him until a near-fatal end. 

Something tells Steve that Bucky won’t come quietly.

Objectively, Steve knows Bucky will be afraid. He probably lives in a perpetual state of fear, thoughts of being killed or captured either by Hydra or the government always on the back of his mind. 

And if that doesn’t break Steve’s heart into tiny little pieces…

~*~

He’s come up with a plan the next day.

He writes the note in blue ink on a piece of nondescript hotel stationary. He rips off the heading that details the hotel’s name, address, and phone number—just in case… 

_Hey Pal,_

_I’m the only one who knows you’re here so don’t worry. But I want to talk. I hear some people have been bothering you. I’d like to help._

_Sincerely,_

_SR_

He has to wait three days for an opening, but then the little group of workers is headed down to the same sports bar they’d been to last time. _Good_ , Steve thinks, watching as Bucky once again struggles to parallel park his truck. 

It’s much the same scene that Steve remembers from the last time. The two other guys tease him about his parking job once he gets out of the truck, and then they all meander inside the bar. Steve waits in his own parking spot for a few more moments, before throwing on his baseball cap and sunglasses and windbreaker. 

He clutches the folded up note in his hand as he exits the car, and tries to keep his breathing steady and his heart rate down. He feels like his palms are starting to sweat. 

_How is he the only person in the world who can do this to me?_ Steve thinks as he swings open the door and steps inside. 

The three are sitting at the bar where they’d been last time. Bucky’s sitting on the left of the other two men, his hands wrapped around a light beer, eyes on the game. He doesn’t look over when Steve walks in. 

Steve carefully, casually walks over and sits down on the barstool next to Bucky, on the man’s left. Bucky tenses in response, barely perceptible, but Steve catches it. And so Steve takes the note and slips in into the man’s back pocket. 

Or at least, he tries to. Steve’s a trained fighter. He knows stealth, knows how to infiltrate and take down adversaries without making a sound. However, he is not an agent, not a spy—at least, not a _good_ one. He pulls too hard at Bucky’s jeans trying to get the note in his pocket. He can feel the fabric give in his hand, feels it pull slightly against the other man’s flesh.

Bucky’s metal arm whirs and clacks, the noise loud enough to be heard even amidst the racket in the bar. It sounds like a damn engine revving, reminds him of fighting the Soldier on the bridge, the wind-up of the arm before he punched with it. Steve braces himself for the fist to his face, for his sunglasses to end up embedded in his skin, for his nose to break and his cheekbones to shatter. 

“You okay, man? You having a malfunction?” It’s the big, bald man, giving Bucky a concerned glance.

Bucky takes a sip of his beer, no outward signs that he’s distressed besides the sound the arm had made. “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t know what that was,” he answers, then shrugs. “One of these days it’s just going to stop working, and I’m going to be dragging it around like a moron.”

Both men chuckle, and the big man claps Bucky on the shoulder. He glances across Bucky at Steve then and gives him a cursory nod. Steve nods back, before looking back up at the screen. He slips off his sunglasses and tucks them into the collar of his shirt.

Steve orders a beer when the bartender approaches, and sees Bucky glance at him out of his peripheral. He wonders if the man recognizes his voice, or if he’s just scouting out the potential threat next to him. The latter seems most likely. So Steve takes a gamble, turns his head to look right at Bucky, and asks, “What’s the score?”

Bucky hadn’t recognized him, at least not prior to that moment, that much is clear. Steve gets the same wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights expression he remembers from the helicarrier. Steve can remember it like it was yesterday. Bucky hovering over him, not the Soldier but _Bucky_ , his blue-grey eyes wide with some strange mix of bewilderment and horror. And he’d thought it was okay, then—even if Bucky still finished it, if he was too scared and confused to stop his fist, then it was okay…

He’d seen Bucky one last time, beautiful and strong with light coming back into his eyes, and Steve would stay with him till the end of the line.

At least now, Bucky manages to not look quite as panicked. He’s not panting for breath after a fight, and his mouth is firmly closed. His eyes are a giveaway, though. He knows Steve, and he’s scared. 

But he swallows, quickly schooling his features back into submission, and answers, “Mets are up by two.”

“Mmm, nice,” Steve says with a nod, and takes a sip of his beer. It tastes like swill. 

The exchange has gotten the attention of Bucky’s two companions, but they don’t seem to recognize him as Cap. Bucky’s eyes linger on him for a few moments before he seems to understand the game. He extends his hand and calmly introduces, “James.”

Steve takes Bucky’s hand in a quick but firm shake. It’s the first kind touch they’ve shared in almost eighty-years, and Steve has to swallow down his emotion in order to introduce himself as, “Stephen.”

Bucky smirks at that, and releases Steve’s hand. “You from around here, Stephen?”

“Just visiting. I’m here on business,” he answers.

“Mmm,” Bucky hums, turning back to the screen. The big, bald man next to Bucky glances at their other companion, and they both share a _look_. Steve isn’t sure what it’s about, wonders if they’re expecting violence.

Steve turns his attention back to the game, and silently nurses his beer.

The three men alternate between quietly watching the game and talking shop. About work, about the beer, about somebody’s date that weekend… Bucky’s impressively calm all the while, and Steve can’t help but admire how _good_ he is at this: at the farce, at the game. 

Though Steve supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe Steve is not a spy, but Bucky most certainly is. Or at least, the _Soldier_ was. A first-class infiltrator, a ghost-story. Apparently, the skills have lingered even if the conditioning has faded. 

Steve can see Bucky’s energy beginning to fade much like last time. He slumps down on his barstool, then begins to watch the game with his head propped up on his right hand. The game ends, and the aftergame review and commentary begins. Steve figures he’s stayed long enough to make himself seem nonsuspect.

He stands, throwing some cash down on the bartop, and shares one last glance with Bucky before stepping away. He needs to use the men’s room before he leaves, though, so he heads toward the back instead of out the front door. He doesn’t know whether or not to expect Bucky to follow. He hopes he will.

Steve’s relieved himself and is at the sink washing his hands when the door opens and in Bucky comes. Steve’s stomach flipflops at just the sight of the other man, and he opens his mouth to speak but is quickly preempted. Bucky brings a finger up to his lips, shushing, while his eyes flit around the bathroom walls. Steve turns the sink off and grabs some paper towels, watching as Bucky steps up behind him. 

And Steve’s suddenly very aware of the danger of him. He vividly remembers being shot in the stomach, the crash of the metal fist into the face. He feels himself tense, even though he’s not scared. Damnit, he’s _not_ scared. 

Bucky lingers behind him, and Steve knows the man has noticed him tense up. He knows he can see the rigid line of his shoulders, body braced for attack. Bucky doesn’t comment, but then Steve feels the man’s hand in his back pocket, rough and obvious. It makes Steve jump in surprise, until he realizes Bucky’s slipping a note to him in return. 

Or not so much as _slipping_ the note as he is stuffing it unceremoniously into his jeans. Steve can’t decide if he just wants to be sure Steve knows it’s there or… Steve grins. Bucky’s making fun of him for failing so horribly at a reverse pickpocket. 

_I get it, jerk_ , he wants to say, but apparently Bucky doesn’t think it’s safe to speak. Not safe even here, in a toilet in a sports bar. So he just nods to Bucky as the man walks around him and lets himself out of the restroom. 

He pulls the note out of his pocket once Bucky’s gone, leaving him alone. It’s written in ink on a plain white napkin from the bar, hastily and crookedly folded. His handwriting is small and messy, the same as Steve remembers from when they were kids, sitting cross-legged next to each other on the floor doing homework.

The note reads:

_Hey Punk,_

_Follow me back to my place. I’ll flash the lights twice if it’s safe to come up. If they don’t flash, don’t come up. It’s room 212. We’ll talk._

_You’ve been scaring the shit out of me, you know? It’s real good to see you though._

_Yours Truly,_

_BB_

Steve tucks the note back into his pocket before leaving the restroom. Bucky’s just making his way out the front door, fishing his keys out of his pocket. His two companions from the bar are both watching him leave, though they quickly turn to look at Steve as soon as he begins to make his way out. For a moment, Steve fears that they suspect something is amiss, but the two men are both smirking at him for some reason. As though they think something is amusing. 

He can’t figure out what is particularly cute or funny about the situation, so he just ignores it and heads down the road behind Bucky’s old beat-up truck.

~*~

The lights come on and stay on for several long minutes.

Steve sits in his car across the street and watches, worrying. Bucky said not to come up if the lights didn’t flash, but Steve’s literally about to say ‘ _screw that shit…_ ’ He’s still got his shield in the trunk. If there’s a threat up there, if Bucky’s in danger, he doesn’t intend to let the man fight alone. 

But then the lights flash once, twice.

Steve crosses the street, climbs the steps, and knocks on the door of apartment 212.

Bucky answers the door before Steve’s finished knocking, standing aside immediately and motioning for Steve to enter. Steve takes the hint and quickly steps across the threshold, moving as Bucky closes and locks the door behind him.

He’s got the lock and deadbolt that came with the apartment, along with three deadbolts he’s clearly installed himself. _There goes your security deposit_ , Steve thinks with a slightly hysterical chuckle. 

Bucky turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow. He’s standing there in the dirty jeans and t-shirt he’d been wearing in the bar, though the flannel has been removed and his boots kicked off. He’s as handsome as he’s always been, as handsome as the sixteen-year-old boy who used to sit beside Steve all night, who used to hush him and wipe his brow while he shivered with fever. As handsome as the eighteen-year-old boy drafted into the war and taken from away from him, the boy that Steve grieved for before he’d ever fallen. As handsome the twenty-some-year-old soldier standing next to him overseas, his rifle slung over his shoulder, uniform damp from the falling snow. 

There is a tired ruggedness to him now. The pain and suffering have aged him more than the years ever could. It’s left him looking both rough and raw all at once, and Steve doesn’t know whether he wants to hug the man or drop to his knees. 

And there are a million things Steve wants to say…

_I love you, I always did. I should have said it before, back then, but I was young and stupid and scared. You were scared, too, I know you were. It was the only reason we said the things we did say._

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have caught you, should have saved you. I should have been faster, stronger, better. Or at least, I shouldn’t have just given up. I should have know you might have survived the fall, after what I’d already seen. I should have insisted you weren’t KIA. I should have kept looking._

It’s Bucky who speaks up first, though.

“If this is some trick, and you’ve come to take me in,” he says, voice measured, “then you’re going to have to just kill me. Because I’m not going.”

Steve blinks. “Wait, what?”

“I’m not, Steve. I _can’t_ ,” Bucky answers, his steadfast tone beginning to fall apart. “They’ll lock me away, stare at me through a peephole, poke around in my head to see what makes the crazed murderer tick—I can’t, Steve. I’d rather die. So you’ll have to kill me.”

And while Steve hadn’t really known what to expect walking in here, _that_ wasn’t it. “That’s not why I’m here. I swear it’s not. No one else knows I’m here, or that you’re here.”

Bucky nods, his face blank but his eyes bright. His eyes always were beautifully expressive.

“And you’re not a murderer,” Steve adds.

Bucky laughs, turning away towards his kitchenette. His little white cat slinks along behind him. “Facts are facts, pal.”

“That wasn’t you.”

“I dunno. I seem to remember _my_ hands on the guns, _my_ finger on the trigger. I’m still forgetful sometimes, but _that_ shit I remember.” He turns back around to face Steve, gesturing at his fridge. “Want something to drink?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Steve answers, and watches as Bucky turns his back to him once again, reaching into the fridge for a couple of sodas. And while Steve knows Bucky was trying to get him to drop the subject, he plows on. “That wasn’t you, Buck. I didn’t even recognize you at first. On the roof of those apartments, on the bridge…”

“They put me in that muzzle all the time,” Bucky interrupts, handing one of the soda cans over and then snapping open his own. “You couldn’t see my face.”

“I could see your eyes,” Steve says. “But those weren’t your eyes. I’d recognize _your_ eyes anywhere.”

And _God_ he’s a sap, maybe he needs to just shut his mouth. 

Or maybe, judging from the way Bucky goes silent, eyes on the floor and bottom lip between his teeth—maybe something sappy needed to be said. 

“I’m not going to stand here and argue semantics with you,” Bucky says finally.

“Well, then,” Steve tries, looking around himself. There’s a mismatched couch and overstuffed armchair in the small living area. Steve gestures, and asks, “Will you _sit_ and argue semantics with me?”

Bucky smirks. “How about we compromise? We’ll sit and not argue, yeah? Too tired to argue.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Steve says. 

Bucky settles down in the armchair, and so Steve settles down on the couch cattycorner to him. Bucky takes a sip of his drink, gaze trained away from Steve, firmly fixed on the blank screen of the television against the wall. Steve takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.

“It’s good to see you,” Steve finally says. “Really good…”

Bucky smiles, small but true, gaze turning to the floor beneath his feet. “I see you on the TV all the time, being heroic and all that jazz. I always think, ‘there he goes again’,” he says, and shakes his head. Then, quieter, “It’s really good to see you, too.”

“We looked for you,” Steve tells him. “I don’t want you to think that I just abandoned you. Again. I didn’t give up. I knew you were still _you_ , underneath it all. I’d seen it. And you were alone, we’d taken down the rest of your STRIKE team…”

“I know,” Bucky tries to interrupt him.

“I promise, we looked.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice firm. His eyes meet Steve’s finally. “I knew how to get to you. You’re on the TV all the time, remember? I’ve stayed away for my own reasons. And for your own good.”

“For your own reasons, maybe,” Steve argues. “Don’t say you stayed away for my own good. That’s not…”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Bucky cuts him off, succinct. “Say what you want, think what you want. I didn’t let you up here to rehash the past eighty-years.”

Steve takes a deep breath. _What if I want to, **need** to?_ he thinks. But he just says, “Then tell me what’s been happening. We thought we’d eliminated Hydra.”

“You thought you’d eliminated them?” Bucky asks, then snorts. “Looks like you missed a spot.”

“See, this is why you should have come to me…” Steve begins, but Bucky’s already standing up and stepping across the room. There’s a little desk in the corner, some books and notebooks stacked neatly in piles with a laptop in the middle. Bucky unplugs the laptop before bringing it back over. He sits next to Steve on the couch, and Steve’s stomach flipflops at the proximity alone.

“I’ve made notes of what I’ve been able to pick up, which isn’t much. Some names, a few license plates, and I went from there but came up empty handed,” he says, and opens up his laptop, angling it so Steve can see.

The laptop’s wallpaper is his shield on a black background, rings of red and white with the star in the center. Steve’s not quite sure what to do with that, but his heart skips a beat all the same.

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge he has Steve, or at least Steve’s symbol, pasted all over the background of his laptop. Instead, he just pulls up his ‘Documents’ folder and opens a file entitled ‘Finals_Project.docx’. It gives Steve a moment of pause, until it ends up being password protected, and of course, he should have realized Bucky wouldn’t have titled the file ‘Secret_Hydra_Info.docx’. 

“You type well,” Steve comments, watching as Bucky types in the password with quick, nimble precision even if his metal fingers clack loud against the keys. Steve’s still not good with computers, or technology in general. He types with his two index fingers and still tends to make typos. 

“Mmm,” Bucky hums in response, eyes on the screen as the file opens up. “I took a class at the community college. Trying to catch up with the times, know?”

Steve blinks. “What?” he asks.

Bucky turns his head, eyeing Steve with amusement. “College. School. Education,” he says. “They had that when he were children, I’m quite sure.”

That makes Steve laugh. “No, I mean, I didn’t think you’d be the type,” he says, and Bucky just shrugs, the edge of his mouth curved up into a grin. Steve continues, “I thought you had to have papers for that. A driver’s license, birth certificate, that kind of thing.”

Bucky’s grin falls, and Steve wishes he’d never said it. “I’ve got papers,” Bucky says. “I’ve got them. Hydra had papers for me. They hid me for the most part, but I guess they figured they needed papers for me in the event of an emergency. Turned out to work in my favor.”

“And they just let you walk around with them?” Steve replies, frowning. 

Bucky huffs a laugh, but it holds no humor. “Of course not, you dumb punk. I raided the two nearby safehouses—or rather, a very kind man did it for me. I was… _incapacitated_ for a while. It’s a long story. But the papers were in one. He brought them back to me.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They might even be real—or you know, actually issued by the U.S. government, not made in a Hydra base. They had enough government officials in their pocket, it’s possible.”

And Steve has a million questions after that. _What exactly happened? You were incapacitated for a while? What man? I will sit here all night and listen to your long story…_

However, it does explain why a couple of the safehouses had obviously been searched, weapons and medicine and food missing. Steve had thought it was Bucky at first, until they couldn’t find him. Then, he’d chalked it up to lingering Hydra agents looking for supplies. 

Well, he’d been right the first time. It _had_ been Bucky. 

Bucky watches his face for a few more moments, staying silent, before deciding this conversation is over. He gestures idly to his computer screen, and says, “Like I said, it’s not much. But it’s what I have.”

Steve leans closer to look at the document. There are a few names there, as well as some addresses and other information. It also seems Bucky has typed some things out, occurrences and things he has noticed, perhaps afraid the details would become muddied if he didn’t.

“Can I…?” Steve asks, holding his hands out for the laptop. Bucky nods, handing it over, and so Steve settles it down on his hips and stomach, narrowing his eyes at the information. He doesn’t recognize any of the names listed, though there had been so many names on so many different lists when he and Nat and Sam were rooting out the remains of Hydra. He has a good memory, but it’s still completely possible that one of these people is just someone who slipped under the radar. Someone they thought was collateral in a base explosion but had somehow crawled out alive. 

He’s probably going to have to contact Natasha, and he’s not at all sure how to bring that up to Bucky.

“Have you been to any of these addresses?” Steve asks, glancing at Bucky. 

“That one,” Bucky says, motioning to the first one in the list of three, a Pennsylvania address. “There were three men there that I saw. I killed two, the third one got away—he shot me in the thigh, really slowed me down. Worse than I already was.” He pauses, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to make excuses or complain, but I’m not like I used to be. I know I haven’t lost any muscle, and you look at the fucking arm and think…”

“You’re not complaining or making excuses, Buck,” Steve says, quiet. “You’ve been through hell and back.”

Bucky looks up at him, eyes open and suddenly vulnerable. He shakes his head, and continues, “I’m just exhausted all the time, and I’m in pain. I went to that house thinking I could take a just few guys, no big deal. I mean, when I was _Soldat_ , I’d go in bases and take out over 25 men without a scratch. But I was sorely mistaken—I’m in no shape to be fighting right now. If I hadn’t had the arm to block the bullets, I wouldn’t have gotten out of there alive…”

Steve’s heart ends up in his throat. “Then don’t,” he says. “Don’t fight. Don’t go anymore.”

Bucky chuckles. “Why do you think I haven’t been to those other addresses?” he asks. “It’s not going to do me any good to figure out what’s going on if I end up dying in the process.”

Steve nods and continues reading in silence. There are several license plate numbers, including the license plate of the man who Bucky said shot him and then got away. Steve’s honestly impressed he'd even managed to get that, injured as he was and with the man no doubt speeding away from the scene. There are driver’s license numbers for the other two men as well, both of which Bucky has already determined are fake. 

There is information written down on each encounter he’s had personally, where an agent has approached him and tried to take him or kill him. Steve reads with a lump in his throat, starting with one that is almost laughable. Bucky had been walking down the street to his apartment, an old one in Albany apparently, when a man pushed a pistol into his back and demanded he come with him. Bucky had just twisted away from him, grabbing his wrist and disarming him easily before punching him in the face. He’d left him there, not wanting to make more of a scene than he already had, but had tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and taken it home. 

He’s obviously checked the gun’s registration and has the gun’s registered owner listed in the document. Next to the name are the words ‘ _deceased 02/26/1998’_. Dead-end indeed.

The incident June had described happening in her deli is detailed in the document as well. It has a large gap where Bucky describes himself as being ‘cataleptic’. Steve isn’t even sure what this means, and he turns his head to ask Bucky only to quickly stop himself…

The man is sagged down into the couch, his head leaned back and tilted to the side in that way that will inevitably put a crick in his neck. He’s asleep, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and heavy, a piece of dark hair escaped from his bun laying across his brow and cheek. 

Steve wants nothing more than to brush that piece of hair back and press a soft, sweet kiss to his forehead. _God, sweetheart, you weren’t joking about being exhausted, were you?_

He turns back to the computer, finishing up reading Bucky’s recollection of the incident. He’s describes June helping him up, and insisting she not call for an ambulance. _I can’t risk being examined by medical personnel_ , he’s typed. _I don’t know what blood and urine tests will show. Probably that I’ve been injected with serums. And that’s not even mentioning the arm…_

Then, much to Steve’s surprise, he describes going through withdrawal again after being injected with the sedative. Or rather, he doesn’t describe it, but mentions it with obvious anger and a _fuck these people_ added at the end of everything. 

Steve looks to the side again, looks at the man sleeping next to him. His lips have parted a bit now, and he’s making the same noise he used to make when he slept, the same noise Steve remembers from when they were teenagers. Not quite a snore, but louder than just regular breathing. 

And his vulnerability at that moment is staggering, wanted by Hydra and the American government both, yet asleep by Steve's side. Steve doesn’t know whether he still trusts Steve to that degree, trusts him with this very existence even after everything, or if he was just too exhausted, too _sick_ to keep himself from drifting off.

Both thoughts make Steve’s heart spasm in his chest. 

The man’s going to end up with a sore neck sleeping like that, though. Or at least, an ever sorer neck. So Steve reaches out, gently squeezing the man’s flesh shoulder, and says quietly, “Hey, sweetheart. Hey, wake up. You fell asleep.”

He hadn’t meant to call him _sweetheart_. He really hadn’t. It just sort of slipped out. However, Bucky’s too busy startling awake in a panic, reaching wildly under the end table on his left. And Steve kicks himself, because he should have seen this coming a mile away. The man has PTSD, that’s just a given, and of course he’s wound tighter than a drum. 

“Easy, easy,” Steve murmurs, but Bucky’s already taking a deep breath to calm himself and pulling his hand away from the end table. Steve continues, “You’re alright. It’s just me. You fell asleep.”

Bucky takes another deep breath and scrubs his flesh hand over his face. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I still wake up on a trigger sometimes.”

“S’okay. I’m not surprised,” Steve says. Then, “You got a gun under that table?”

Bucky chuckles, shooting sleepy eyes in Steve’s direction. “Better to ask me where I _don’t_ have a gun.”

Steve smiles sadly and goes to close the laptop, but Bucky preempts him.

“No, let’s finish,” he says, then yawns. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“We can finish this tomorrow,” Steve says, closing the laptop even while Bucky pulls on his arm. “Go lie down, get some real sleep. I’ve already got a few things I can get started looking into.” _And I need to figure out how to broach the subject of getting Natasha involved…_

Bucky opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but then he ends up yawning again. Steve raises his eyebrows at him, and Bucky scowls at him. “Fine, yeah, I’m fucking tired,” Bucky admits, standing up. Then, “Couch is a pullout. I’ve got an extra pair of sheets, but you’ll just have to take one of the pillows off of my bed. I don’t have extras.”

Steve is so floored that it actually takes a second for his mind to catch up with what was said. Bucky’s already disappeared into his bedroom, assumedly to get the aforementioned sheets, when Steve asks stupidly, “You want me to stay here?”

It takes a minute, but then Bucky’s peeking back out of the bedroom, a stack of bedsheets neatly folded in his arms. “I mean, I thought…” he says, sounding unsure, but then he frowns. “I guess you’ve been staying in a hotel or something, haven’t you? Nevermind, I was just…”

“Buck,” Steve interrupts, a smile finding its way to his lips. “I would _love_ to stay here tonight, if you’d like me to.”

Bucky doesn’t finish his sentence, but his eyes meet Steve’s with open emotion. June’s words come back to him—‘ _He misses you. A lot.’_ Bucky swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and he tries, “You have an actual bed there. All I have is the pullout for you.”

 _You have a bed. We used to share a bed_ , Steve thinks, feeling horrible as soon as he thinks it. Bucky would have offered the bed if he wanted to, if he was comfortable. So Steve just walks up to him, gently taking the sheets out of his hands. “I’d love to stay here,” he repeats. Then, because all things considered, he’s not sure Bucky would appreciate him stripping down to his underwear in the living room, “Do you have an extra pair of sweats I could borrow for tonight? I’ll go get my things in the morning.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky says, though he doesn’t move. He just watches Steve while Steve stares back. Eventually, Bucky sighs, leaning against the bedroom doorframe and closing his eyes. “Steve,” he says quietly. “Steve, I am _so sorry_ …”

Steve frowns. “For what?”

Bucky barks out a laugh, just this side of hysterical. “I almost killed you,” he says, eyes opening to meet Steve’s. There are tears hanging in the corners that he's fighting back. “I shot you in the stomach. Almost broke open your skull. I had all intentions to—to kill you—until you stopped me.”

And Steve wants nothing more than to take the two steps, gather Bucky up into his arms and tuck his face into the crook of his neck, hold him close and take away his pain. However, he’s not sure that sort of touch would be welcome right now, and he knows logically that there is no taking away the man’s pain. So he says the only thing he knows to say, “Buck, that wasn’t you. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Bucky huffs. “I wasn’t thinking, asking you to stay,” he says, showing no sign that he heard what Steve had said. “It’s just that you being here made it feel like it used to. But I don’t know how you can be in the same room with me right now, after what I did to you…”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says, inadvertently squeezing Bucky’s sheets close to his chest. “ _It wasn’t you_. I saw it, I was there. I saw when _you_ broke through, when it _was_ you. And you stopped yourself then. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t, I swear you didn’t…”

Bucky swallows, turning his gaze to the floor. He doesn’t blush, Bucky’s not a blusher, but Steve’s seen that look on his face before. Slightly shy, slightly uncomfortable. Whatever he’s about to say is personal, private. And then he speaks: “I didn’t remember you at first. I mean, not _you_. Not your name, who you were, where you came from—but you said those words to me, and I _felt_. I knew you meant something to me. I knew we’d been intimate, and I knew we’d made love, and you were bleeding under my hands.”

Something breaks apart inside of Steve's chest, and he doesn't even realize he’s about to cry until he opens his mouth. "Can I...?" His voice comes out ragged, the lump in his throat is so heavy he can barely speak. “Can I hug you? Please?”

Bucky nods desperately, stumbling forward out of the doorway. Steve accidentally drops the sheets as he opens his arms up to the other man, but he couldn’t care less in that moment. Not when Bucky’s warm body is pressed up against his front, the man’s face against the side of his neck. Steve loops his arms around Bucky’s back, while Bucky’s curls his arms around Steve’s shoulders. 

Bucky was working all day, sweating all day, and this close to him, Steve can tell. Though he finds that he doesn’t even care, actually finds the hard scent of sweat and musk pleasing. It’s deeply masculine, which is what had driven Steve to distraction as a young, sick teenager. He’d told himself at first it was just because he wanted to be _like_ Bucky. Big, strong, and masculine like Bucky—not small, weak, and sick like himself. 

Of course, he’d only been able to lie to himself for so long.

Steve doesn’t know how long they stand outside Bucky’s bedroom just holding each other. It’s soothing, comforting. Just two weeks ago, Steve hadn’t thought he’d ever see this man again. Now, he’s got the man warm and alive against his chest, breathing steady against him. It’s almost overwhelming. 

Eventually Bucky pulls away, discretely wiping at his eyes. Steve has to wipe at his own eyes as well. Bucky speaks up, “Let me get you those sweats, and a pillow. I think I’ve got an unused toothbrush, too. I’ll look.”

“Thanks,” Steve tells him, and gathers up the sheets from the floor. He walks back into the living area and tries to figure out how to get the pullout couch to, well, _pull out_. 

“Here, I got…” Bucky begins, stepping back out of his bedroom with sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a pillow as promised. He chuckles, watching Steve fiddle with the couch. “You having a problem?”

“Just a little,” Steve admits with a sheepish grin, taking a step back to allow Bucky to handle it. A flip here and a pull there, and then the couch is a bed. “Thanks,” Steve says. 

“Not a problem,” he says, depositing his clothes and the pillow down on the bed then reaching for the sheets. Steve shoos him away, though, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m capable of putting the sheets on,” he says. “Go lie down.”

Bucky hovers nearby as though wanting to disagree, but then sighs. “Okay. I’m just going to brush my teeth first, I’ll shower in the morning…”

Steve nods. “Go ahead. I’ll take the bathroom after you.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, lingering for one more moment before turning away. The bathroom is just next to the bedroom, and Bucky lets himself instead, flipping on the lights as he goes. He only closes the door halfway, and Steve can hear him, even see him a bit from the living room. Steve watches him run a wet washcloth over his face, and listens to him brush his teeth and take a piss in the toilet. 

Steve’s got the sheets on by the time Bucky wanders back out. Bucky glances at the couch appraisingly, and Steve can’t help but laugh. “Does it meet your approval?” he asks.

Bucky cracks a grin, and answers, “I suppose.” Then, after an uncertain moment, he extends his right arm, a clear request. As if Steve isn’t going to, doesn’t want to—wouldn’t lay him down and make love to him that moment if he asked. 

Steve embraces him again, though it’s not as desperate as the first. It’s just a simple gesture of care and companionship, soft and comforting. “Good night,” Steve tells him quietly, whispered into his dark hair.

“Good night,” Bucky echoes him, before pulling away. He heads toward his bedroom, looking back at Steve one last time before easing the door closed behind him. Like the bathroom, he only partially shuts it, and if Steve thinks too much about that, he’ll find himself crying again. 

Steve lets himself into the bathroom, then splashes some water on his face and brushes his teeth with the toothbrush Bucky’s laid out for him. As he heads back to the pullout, he glances through the opening into Bucky’s bedroom and finds the man climbing into his bed, the little cat curled up by the pillows. Bucky’s changed out of his earlier clothes into an oversized t-shirt, and _only_ an oversized t-shirt. Steve gets a view of his rear end in black briefs and his bare thick thighs, before Steve is blushing and quickly shuffling away toward the couch. He changes efficiently and lowers himself onto the pullout. 

He finds that once he’s settled in comfortably and closed his eyes, he can smell Bucky in the pillow under his head. And of course he can, it came from the man’s bed. But it smells like men’s shampoo and soap and clean sweat, and like that something that is just _Bucky,_ something that Steve has never been able to put a name to…

He clutches the pillow tight to his face, and he sleeps. 


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing fast and loose with some of the canon from the comics for my own benefit--just wanted to throw that out there because I don't think I've mentioned it. 
> 
> And thanks to everyone who's commented and left kudos. It means more than you know. <3

Steve wakes the next morning to loud meowing. 

It takes him a moment to understand what is happening. He’s lying on a lumpy mattress, or some uncomfortable pretense thereof. But regardless of his aching back, he’s filled with a deep sort of peace. The sheets are cool against the heat of his skin, and the pillow under his head smells like solace, like home. 

Like _Bucky_.

As if on cue, he hears the man’s voice, muffled as though under blankets and pillows. “Fucking cat, go back to sleep…”

The cat seems to meow louder, almost indignant. Steve grins, eyes still closed. He’s definitely _not_ inhaling the scent off his pillow. 

Bucky groans in irritation, then whines, “Cat…”

“Is its name ‘Cat’?” Steve calls, and hears Bucky huff a tired laugh in response. 

“It’s a ‘he’. And his name is ‘Al’,” Bucky replies. Then, after a pause filled with more meowing, “He doesn’t understand the concept of sleeping in.”

“You usually get up for work now?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers. “But I’m off today.”

That has Steve opening his eyes and rolling up and out of the bed without even thinking twice. He stretches once he stands, then scratches at his belly as he heads towards Bucky’s bedroom. The door is still partially cracked, and so he eases it the rest of the way open. 

Bucky’s sitting up on the edge of the bed, the cat tucked under his flesh arm, his metal hand covering his mouth as he yawns. He quickly grabs for the sheets when he sees Steve, pulling them over his lap to cover his bare thighs. It gives Steve a moment of pause because, well, he’s certainly seen Bucky in his underwear before. In fact, he’s seen a whole lot more.

He can remember himself in a military tent, his face buried between Bucky’s legs, Bucky on his back with his knees by his shoulders. He can remember the sharp scent of sweat and the earthy taste on his tongue and Bucky’s cries of pleasure muffled into combat trousers.

He can also remember those Hydra files, though, detailed descriptions of this once kind and gentle man being tied down, drugged and beaten and raped. All to take his autonomy from him, to prove that he was owned, to prove that he had no choice but to bend and then break.

And so Steve says nothing about Bucky covering himself. He just gestures for the man to give him the cat and says, “Here, I’ll take care of him. Where’s his food?”

Bucky frowns, and starts, “I can get it…”

“I know you _can_ ,” Steve interrupts, “but I’m…”

“I do it every day, he’s _mine_.” Bucky talks over him. 

Steve sighs. “I thought you were too tired to argue?”

Bucky just stares for a moment, before his lips quirk up into a grin. “I got some sleep, I’m good to go now,” he quips. Then, “Age hasn’t mellowed you out at all, has it? Still as pushy as ever.”

“I prefer the word ‘determined’, but…” Steve says, then gestures again. “Gimme the cat.”

“His name is Al,” Bucky corrects, but hands him over nonetheless. Al goes easily enough, even if he twists his head back to look at Bucky. Bucky adds, “His food’s in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, and there should be some bowls in the drainer. He just wants to be fed, he’ll be quiet as soon as you put some down.”

“I’ll take care of him, don’t worry,” Steve says, heading back out of the bedroom. 

“Put what he doesn’t eat in the fridge, saves me money,” Bucky adds. Then, as Steve begins to ease the door shut, “Leave the door open a bit. Please…”

“Of course,” Steve answers, leaving the door halfway open like Bucky had done before. He hadn’t been going to completely shut it in the first place. He’s a bit more observant than that.

True to Bucky’s word, once Steve’s emptied a can of cat food into a dish and set it on the floor, Al happily begins eating and stops meowing. Steve stands and watches the little cat for a moment, before he finds himself grinning. “Do you watch out for my buddy, hmm?” he whispers to the cat, though Al doesn’t look up at him, just keeps munching away. 

Steve takes the opportunity to look around the apartment while Bucky’s still in bed. The kitchenette is small and simple, all shades of beige and off-white, furnished with a small table, a cheap-looking fridge, and a basic stove. The only other appliances he has are a microwave, a toaster, and a coffeemaker. However, everything is spotless, orderly and clean— _military_. 

There are two plastic quarts of ground Maxwell House stacked tidily next to the coffeemaker. Steve thinks about starting a pot, but then figures he should wait until Bucky gets up. The smell will probably rouse him otherwise.

Curious, Steve opens one of the kitchen drawers. It’s not what he expects—just some utensils, forks and spoons and butter knives, a steak knife as well that Steve supposes could do in an emergency. The next drawer over, though? Several butcher knives and a 9mm. 

Yeah, that’s more what Steve was expecting.

He closes the drawer and wanders back into the living area, looking around as he goes. More beige and off-white, with a stain by the couch that looks suspiciously like blood. Though it’s small, and Steve sees no blood on the actual pullout. Perhaps it was just a mundane accident, a slip of a knife in the kitchen, blood dripped on the carpet as Bucky hurried to the bathroom for a band aid. 

There’s a large TV on the wall across from the couch. Or at least, it’s large to Steve’s mind. It’s nothing compared to the excess in the Tower, and Tony would most likely scoff at it. Still, it makes Steve grin, remembering when he and Bucky’d had nothing, when they’d sat in front of a staticky radio to listen to the Dodgers games. 

Bucky has some sort of gaming console next to the cable box, both set on a coffee table against the wall. Steve’s still not very good with that sort of thing, though, even if he has listened to Peter enthuse over the Xbox and PlayStation in the Tower. Steve continues on, opening the double doors on the coffee table to find a bunch of cases: games or movies? He’s not sure. But when he reaches his hand inside, he finds a gun strapped to the top of the interior. Steve smirks.

There are two full-wall bookshelves flanking the television, both completely filled with a variety of books. Some titles Steve recognizes from before the ice: _Don Quixote. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Lorna Doone._ Some Steve recognizes from his ever-expanding list of recommendations: _The Lord of the Rings_ series. The _Harry Potter_ series. A variety of Stephen King novels. And then some he can’t remember ever hearing of before: _A Clockwork Orange. Lolita. Middlesex._

There’s an AK-47 behind the bookshelf closest to the door. It’s not visible unless you’re looking for it, peering directly between the bookshelf and the wall, but it’s squeezed in. Steve shakes his head and turns away.

The last piece of furniture in the room, not counting the cat’s bed and toys on the floor, is the desk. The laptop is once again in the middle, set in front of the plain office chair and plugged into the outlet on the wall. Steve gets a closer look at the books and notebooks on the desk as he wanders over. They’re not hardback novels and idle musings as Steve had first assumed; they’re textbooks and notes taken from lectures. The notebook closest the laptop is labeled in black sharpie as ‘Humanities I’. Steve picks it up and absently flips open to a random page, finds an outline on ancient Greek architecture in Bucky’s messy handwriting.

Steve smiles, glancing back toward Bucky’s bedroom as he sets the notebook back where he’d found it. He makes his way back over to the bedroom, peering inside. Bucky’s lying on his side in the fetal position, his back to Steve, his metal arm underneath him. The sheets are pushed down around his hips while his shirt is rucked up in the back, and a little sliver of pale skin is revealed in between. The tone there is a stark contrast to the deep sun-kissed bronze on his face and arm. He has a farmer’s tan—or a construction worker’s tan in this case, Steve supposes…

The bedroom is sparse: an end table with a lamp and alarm clock set on top, a plain wooden dresser, and a closet on the far wall. And the bed, of course, large and soft-looking, the only thing of real value in the room. It’s complete with clashing blankets and quilts, though Bucky has kicked most of these to the side, apparently too hot to stay covered during the summer months. However, he has one clutched in his hands and held tight to his chest, a security blanket it would seem. 

Bucky’s breathing deep in his sleep, snuffling occasionally into his pillow, and Steve’s heart swells with love for this man. He wants nothing more than to climb into the bed behind him, to wrap him up in his arms and hold him close, keep him safe and secure while he sleeps. And if he stands in the doorway any longer, he may not be able to stop himself. So he backs away and lets himself into the bathroom. 

He has to pee, so he uses the toilet and then glances around himself while he washes his hands. The bathroom is just as impersonal as the rest of the apartment: a toilet, a sink, and a shower-tub combo. Everything is clean white on clean white, white tile underfoot and off-white walls. The only splashes of color in the room are the ruddy blue shower curtain and towels.

He opens the medicine cabinet next to the sink, unsure what he’s expecting to find, though it turns out there’s nothing extraordinary there. Only value-pack gigantic bottles of over-the-counter medication: ibuprofen, Excedrin, Pepto-Bismol, meclizine… 

Steve knows from his Hydra files that Bucky can be medicated—they’d given him everything from narcotics to benzodiazepines to keep him cooperative and docile. Though Steve wonders how much ibuprofen it takes to just dull his pain, how much Pepto he swallows to quiet an upset stomach. 

There is _a lot_ of medicine in that cabinet. 

He stares at himself in the mirror over the sink after. He looks tired, stressed, and he needs to shave. _I shouldn’t be snooping_ , he thinks _. I just want to know where Bucky’s keeping his weapons_ , he lies to himself. _I just want to be here in his home, amidst his things, amidst his life_ , he knows is the truth. 

It’s where Bucky finds him some time later. He’s still standing in front of the mirror deep in thought, arguing with himself over what he’s doing and what he should be doing and what he’s going to do, when he hears Bucky’s voice from behind him. “You alright there?”

Steve meets his eyes through the mirror. Bucky still looks half-asleep, and Steve almost wants to suggest that he go back to bed, except that it’s not his place. So he just swallows and answers, “Yeah, m’fine. Just thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Bucky quips, smirking. Then, gesturing, “You find what you were looking for?”

“Wh-what?” Steve stammers.

“It’s in the drawer under the sink, if you haven’t already found it.”

Steve opens the drawer to find a handgun. Of course. He sighs and meets Bucky’s gaze again. “You got rounds for all these guns?”

“ _All_ these guns?” Bucky counters, raising his brows. “You been busy while I was sleeping, haven’t you?”

Steve shrugs sheepishly, closing the drawer. “Thought it was best to be prepared, just in case…”

“Mmm,” Bucky hums, an impassive expression on his face but a knowing look in his eye. Steve swallows, turning to face the other man. Bucky continues, “I need to shower, if you’re finished in here…”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says. Bucky moves out of the doorway so that Steve can ease past, but Steve catches him before the other man can get in the bathroom and shut the door. “Can I do anything for you?” he asks. “Start some coffee? Make breakfast?”

Bucky looks back at him, seeming startled by the question. He’s silent momentarily, just blinking, eyes wet. Finally, he answers, “Some coffee would be nice.”

“On it,” Steve tells him, before leaving him be to take his shower.

~*~

Once Bucky is finished with his shower, Steve takes his leave to go get his things from the hotel. 

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” Steve tells him. And then, once it becomes clear that Bucky doesn’t plan on having anything for breakfast besides the coffee, “I’ll stop and get some fresh bagels or something on the way back. You like Einstein bagels?”

“Yeah, but…” Bucky trails off, looking away. He takes his coffee the same way as he used to, Steve notices. Dark, no sugar. “I usually don’t eat in the morning.”

Steve frowns. “Why? You got a metabolism like me, you need the calories.”

Bucky shrugs, sheepish, and Steve’s beginning to understand that facial expression. Whether it’s still a lingering issue engrained from Hydra, or whether he just doesn’t want to show it in front of Steve: Bucky is very hesitant to admit any weakness. Scratching at the back of his neck, Bucky mumbles, “Usually doesn’t sit well in the morning. Makes me feels like I’m gonna puke.” Then, with a self-deprecating laugh, “I promise it ain’t morning sickness. Haven’t been fooling around on you.”

Steve chokes on his coffee. And he wants to address that last part, even though the man was obviously joking. Instead, he takes a breath and says, “You should eat at least a little bit. Something bland, maybe? Just a plain bagel? Yogurt?”

“I have yogurt here,” Bucky says, scowling.

“Well then, I’ll get you a plain bagel,” Steve decides. 

Bucky stares at him seeming like he wants to argue. But eventually he just sighs, leaning his metal elbow onto the counter next to the coffee pot, and says, “Yes, Mr. Nurse.”

“Hey, you used to take care of me,” Steve points out. “Used to force me to eat.”

Bucky grunts noncommittally, but he smirks all the while, obviously remembering. “Yeah, well,” he says, “you were a brat.”

“And you’re not?”

Bucky just shakes his head, still smirking, and turns back to the coffee pot to refill his cup. 

And Steve should really keep his mouth shut, but it’s burning like a fire in his chest. He stares at Bucky’s broad back, at his long hair still damp from the shower, at his loose sweatpants and muscle shirt and bare feet, and he says, “You know, I haven’t fooled around on you, either.”

Bucky goes very still, coffee pot still held in his flesh hand. He stays like that for a long moment, tense and unmoving, before he carefully replaces the pot. He doesn’t turn to face Steve as he says, “It was a joke.”

“I know,” Steve says, “but…”

“No,” Bucky cuts him off, turning to rest his hip on the counter and cross his arms over his chest. He glares. “You’re a fucking idiot, by the way. You had Peggy in the palm of your hand. She woulda married you in a heartbeat. You’d have a ton of pretty little kids and grandkids right now…”

“Buck…”

“…But no, you fly a plane into the Artic. And don’t bother to let anyone know _where_. Just go out in a cloud of smoke.” Bucky rolls his eyes so hard Steve thinks they may roll right out of his head. “Yeah, I know all about it,” he adds. “Not only do I remember _before_ , but I’ve had access to a history book or two since I’ve been out on my own.”

“It wasn’t Peggy that I wanted,” Steve says, quiet.

Bucky laughs, though it’s a mean sound. He shakes his head, and says, “I’ll say it again, I didn’t invite you up here to rehash the past eighty years.”

And Steve will admit that he’s upset. Angry. He wants his friend back, he wants his lover back. He’s confused, because after last night he thought they’d come to some sort of understanding. At least, they’d established that they still cared. “Where is this coming from?” he asks. 

Bucky shakes his head and turns his back on him. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think,” Steve says. “You’ve got history books, I’ve got your Hydra files.”

Bucky’s coffee cup shatters when it hits the floor, shards and dark coffee spreading across the tile. The man’s face is pale when he looks back at Steve, his body wound tight and tense, his hands shaking. And of course he knows what’s in those damn files. Steve really should have realized he’d have gotten every bit of info possible from that Hydra breach.

“Buck…” he tries, voice mild, soothing.

“Get. Out.” Bucky’s tone brooks no argument. It’s an order, given by a Sergeant. 

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, because he’s a Captain. And an idiot.

“Out. Now.” Bucky’s voice is like steel.

So Steve swallows, checks to be sure his keys and wallet are still in his jeans, and leaves.

~*~

Steve goes back to his hotel room and showers, then packs up his things. He checks out with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, then heads back toward Bucky’s apartment. He stops at Einstein Bagels on the way and buys a half-dozen bagels—a couple plain, a couple cinnamon-raison, and a couple sesame. He gets another coffee for himself as well, even though he doesn’t need it. His nerves are fried enough as it is.

He parks across the street from Bucky’s apartment and stares. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

This isn’t the first time they’ve fought, far from it. They were both stubborn and hot-headed boys in their own ways, probably one of the reasons they’d got on so well. But they also butted heads, got angry with each other, quarreled and cursed. 

Though at the end of the day, it was the two of them against the rest of the world. Steve would always have Bucky’s back, just like he knew Bucky’d always have his. Those were just _facts_ , and spats and squabbles didn’t change the facts. 

But Steve feels on unsteady ground now. So much has changed. _They’ve_ changed. He wants to go back up there, hand over the bagels and apologize for being an asshole. It’s what he would have done _before_. And Bucky would have laughed it off, said something like ‘ _you’re always an asshole_.’ And maybe he would’ve talked to Steve then, talked to him about those Hydra files, though Steve can’t really say. There’s no basis for comparison on that one…

Steve’s still watching the apartment from his car when Bucky steps out onto his balcony. Bucky stares at him, hair blowing gently in the breeze, a new coffee cup held in his hands. After a long moment, he makes a vague ‘ _come here’_ gesture, before he goes back inside.

Steve takes that as his cue and makes his way up to Bucky’s apartment.

Bucky opens the door before Steve can knock, then stands aside to let him in. His face is blank, his eyes guarded, and Steve doesn’t know what to think or say. He just holds the bag of bagels up as a peace-offering once Bucky’s locked the door behind them, and says, “I got bagels.”

Bucky’s eyes flick down to the bag before his lips quirk into a tiny grin. The grin falls to a frown almost immediately, though, and Steve wishes he knew what to do to make everything better. To make everything the same as it used to be. _I want my best friend back…_

“Look, I’m sorry,” Steve says, letting Bucky take the bag from him. “I didn’t mean…”

“No,” Bucky interrupts, turning to set the bagels on the kitchen counter. Steve follows him, while Bucky continues, “I knew. I mean, realistically, I knew. It was your people who leaked the Hydra documents, of course you’d seen them. I just wasn’t ready—I mean, you read the whole damn thing?”

Steve sighs. “Buck…”

“Every fucking mission report?”

 _Oh_ … “Yes,” Steve allows.

Bucky doesn’t reply. He just splays his hands out across the counter and leans into it, dropping his head down between his shoulders. 

“That wasn’t you,” Steve says. “You were following orders, the blame lies with…”

“I wasn’t ready to open this can of worms. And I’m still not,” Bucky interrupts. He shakes his head, still not turning around to look at Steve. “I’ve come to terms with what I’ve done. With what happened. Or at least, I’ve tried to. But there are still some days when I just want to leap off the top of Stark Tower.”

Steve sighs. “I think that was about the tenth time you’ve killed me since I’ve been here. And it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”

Bucky snorts, finally turning around. “That’s not funny,” he says, even though he’s grinning.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I just—please don’t go jumping off any buildings.” _I’ve already lost you too many times, I don’t think I’d survive it again._

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve discovered I’m pretty damn hard to kill,” Bucky replies. “I’d probably survive a nosedive off that tower. I survived a nosedive off a cliff, after all.”

“And the eleventh time you’ve killed me,” Steve says, and if his voice cracks, it’s not his fault.

Bucky’s grin falls, and he meets Steve’s eyes for a long moment, silent. When he does speak up, it’s to change the subject. “I have some studying to do now, then I have class this afternoon. We can go over more of the info I have once I get home—I have to take my laptop with me, unfortunately. Otherwise, I’d leave you to it.”

“Not a problem,” Steve says. “I’m sure I can entertain myself.”

“Yeah. Make yourself at home, pal.” Bucky gestures idly at the apartment. “Mi casa es su casa.”

Steve smiles. This is what it used to be like. A brief fight, a battle of wills, then easy apologies. Only before, they’d be having intense, passionate make-up sex right about now. But this new dynamic is good, too. The anxiety and pain from their fight is beginning to melt away. He knows things will be okay again. 

Steve turns to the bag of bagels and pulls out the two sesame bagels. He grabs a knife out of the drawer he’d found the silverware in earlier, and if Bucky notices how easily he locates the utensils, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he looks inside the bag and comments, “You got plain.”

“Yeah. I said I was going to,” Steve replies.

Bucky smiles softly. “I guess I’ll try one. See if it sits okay. It’s just bread, right?”

Steve nods, then suggests, “Maybe take some Pepto first? If you think it’s going to give you a stomachache.”

Bucky arches an eyebrow. “You went through everything in here, didn’t you?” he asks.

Steve shrugs, sheepish. “Just wanted to be prepared,” he repeats his same excuse.

“Mmm,” Bucky hums, smirking. “Well, as I’m sure you figured out, there ain’t much interesting here. Aside from my arsenal, ha…”

Steve chuckles in response, but he thinks…

_You’re here, and that’s more interesting the anything else could ever be._

~*~

They eat their bagels together on the couch, watching the late-morning news on the television as they do. “That man’s an idiot,” Bucky comments at one point, his mouth full, gesturing to President Trump on the screen. 

Steve snorts. “Me and Tony had to meet with him a couple of weeks after his inauguration,” Steve says. Then, in case Bucky doesn’t follow, “You know, me and Stark…”

“Yeah, I’m with you,” Bucky says, shaking his head. Then, “I bet that was just _buckets_ of fun.”

“You have no idea,” Steve says, then laughs. “He hates Tony, you know? Tweets about him all the time.”

“I’ve noticed,” Bucky says with a grin. “He’s not too fond of you, either.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Steve says, shrugging. “This country’s changed a lot since we were kids—in good ways _and_ bad ways. But I’d rather keep moving forward, not back, you know?”

Bucky nods, then adds thoughtfully, “Do you know that gay marriage is legal now?”

He doesn’t say it as though he’s suggesting it, more like he’s wondering if Steve knows. Or perhaps expecting Steve to tell him he’s mistaken. Steve takes a sip of his coffee, gathering his thoughts, and answers, “Yes, I know. Talk about a culture shock. Or generational shock. Whatever you call _that_ feeling—I’m sure you know what I’m talking about…”

Bucky chuckles and nods. “Yeah, still happens all the damn time,” he says. Then, “I was finally getting it together when that happened, you know? I turned on the news that morning, and everyone’s reporting on it. They’re interviewing couples applying for their marriage licenses. All these people were so _happy_.” He pauses with a sigh. “I was sure I’d lost my mind. Was just imagining shit.”

“Buck…”

“But then I realized it was real, and it just…” He shakes his head, tearing off a piece of his dry toasted bagel and playing with it. “We were born in the wrong time, you know that? You ever think about what it would be like if we really were just a couple of thirty-year-olds right now? No World War. No serums. No Nazis…”

“No Nazis? Wouldn’t go that far,” Steve interrupts, earning a sad chuckle from Bucky. Then, he adds, “And I’d be dead by now without the serum.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Bucky says. “There’s been so many medical advances. They could treat your asthma, your back, your stomach, your eyes, your hearing… And you never would have gotten _sick_ sick. I mean, does anyone even get scarlet fever anymore? I’ve never heard about it once since I’ve been back in my head.”

And God, Steve has never once thought about any of this. He closes his eyes, and murmurs again, “Buck…”

“There’s not been a draft, so I never would have gotten sent to war,” Bucky continues. “So you woulda never tried to follow me. You could have actually gone to school, gotten some fancy art degree. We coulda got a little Brooklyn apartment. You could paint all day. Take your work to those art showings and people’d buy your shit for big money. Everyone’d know your name—but because you’re so talented. Not because you’re in some dumb quest to…”

“Stop,” Steve says. “Just, don’t.”

Bucky goes quiet, staring down at his half eaten bagel. “Sorry,” he says after a while. “I spent a lot of time fucked up over all this. Still am fucked up about it. Wondering why the hell it happened. Why me? What the hell did I do wrong to deserve this?”

“Not a damn thing,” Steve says. “Life’s just not fair.”

Bucky soldiers on, though. “Some sort of backwards penance for everything I was about to do, everything I eventually did? I dunno…” He laughs humorlessly. “I thought for a while it was because we’d been queer. I mean, you haven’t had it much better. But then you look around now and things are so different—makes me feel like maybe it wasn’t so wrong. Maybe…”

Steve has to take a deep breath. “It was never wrong. Everyone else was.”

“Maybe,” Bucky allows. “It felt wrong. I felt guilty. I was sure I was going to get you killed. You were all the time looking for a fight anyway.”

“Sweetheart,” Steve says quietly, then wants to kick himself for letting that slip. But God, this man is driving him nuts. “You were the best part of my life. You have to know that…”

Bucky’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Steve’s sure he’s made him unreasonably angry. But then, he says, “I used to love it when you called me that. Made me think I was real special.”

“You were— _are_. Real special,” Steve says, feeling like a sentimental idiot as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Bucky smiles, though, eyes on the floor. Steve swallows, and adds, “You know how I feel. That hasn’t changed. Maybe it’s been eighty-years, but that hasn’t changed.”

Bucky exhales hard, then says, “I told myself I wasn’t gonna do this. When I realized it was you following me and not a Hydra agent—fuck, was I ever glad to see you… But I swore I wasn’t gonna do this.”

And of course Steve misunderstands. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“We’re not gonna,” Bucky says, firm. “I’m still fucked up, Steve. On a good day, I’m a hot mess. On a bad day, I’m hell to be around.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve says. “I…”

“And no, I don’t know how you feel,” Bucky interrupts. “You realize this is the first time we’ve talked about any of this. We were just best friends who had real good sex.”

Steve can feel himself flushing in embarrassment.

“And you got the nerve to still blush about it, God,” Bucky comments.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles. Then, before Bucky can interrupt again, “You were my best guy. In my mind, you were mine, and I was yours, alright? I was just… Just too much of a coward to say it.”

“You’re not a coward.” Bucky calls him out immediately.

Steve chuckles. “I’m not always myself when it comes to you,” he points out. “I mean, I just lie down and give up the fight.”

“No you don’t.” Bucky laughs. “We argued, we fought. And you always had my back, even when I wished you wouldn’t…”

Steve shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

It takes Bucky a moment to follow, but then he frowns. “Steve…”

“I just didn’t want to hurt you,” Steve says.

Bucky puts his paper plate aside, then scrubs his hands over his face. Steve can’t tell if he’s just frustrated, or if he’s trying to hold back tears. “I wasn’t worried about hurting _you_ ,” he points out.

“You didn’t know what you were doing,” Steve argues once again. He wonders how many times he’s going to have to repeat this same dialogue. Then, “It didn’t matter. I still loved you.”

Bucky chokes out a breath—and yeah, he’s holding back tears. “I loved you, too,” he murmurs, hand still over his face. “Still do. Can’t fucking let go.”

“Sweetheart…” Steve says, laying his hand on Bucky’s knee. But Bucky flinches hard at the touch, jerking his hand away from his face, his eyes wide and alarmed. Steve pulls his hand away quickly. 

“No,” Bucky snaps, sounding somewhere between angry and exasperated. He grabs at Steve’s hand and shoves it back down on his knee. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—just, overactive reflexes.”

“S’alright,” Steve says, having a good idea what that was really about. But he’s learned his lesson not to bring up the Hydra files, even though he wants to now. Wants to say he understands, wants to remind the man that he knows, and _God_ , it’s okay. 

But Bucky just laughs, self-deprecating, and says, “I told you, Steve. I’m a mess.”

Steve doesn’t know what else to say, so he just shakes his head.

Then Bucky stands, coffee and half-eaten bagel in hand, and announces, “I need to get outta here if I wanna get to class on time.”

Steve gives him a half-smile, and answers, “I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

Bucky chuckles before disappearing into his bedroom.

~*~

Steve watches TV for a bit while Bucky is gone, before going back down to his car to get the rest of his things. He empties his duffel inside Bucky’s apartment, throwing the t-shirts and jeans and underwear on top of Bucky’s dresser. Most of his clothes are dirty at this point, and he needs to ask Bucky what he does about laundry, if there are machines in the building or if he uses a laundromat nearby.

He stuffs the Captain America suit in the corner of Bucky’s closet, out of sight and out of mind. At least for now. 

He puts his razor and toothbrush and other toiletries in the bathroom, then takes a few minutes to shave. Bucky has some aftershave set by the sink, and so Steve uses it, figuring Bucky won’t mind. It smells fresh and clean. Steve realizes immediately that he’s smelled it on Bucky, on Bucky’s pillow. It makes his heart flutter in his chest.

His shield is still in the trunk of the car, and he thinks about it long and hard for a moment before grabbing the empty duffel and heading back down. The thing does him no good down there, not when the imminent danger is going to be coming for Bucky upstairs in the apartment. So he shoves the shield in his bag the best he can, being sure that at least the star and stripes are covered, and hauls it back up the stairs. 

He takes it out of the bag once inside and leans it up against one of the bookshelves. Easy to access and ready to use. Then, with nothing else pressing to do, he grabs a book off the shelf and settles back down on the couch. 

Stephen King. _The Shining._

He becomes so engrossed that he loses track of time, and he startles when there’s a voice from outside the door. Bucky’s. “It’s me. Open up.”

Steve gets up to undo the deadbolts on the door, and Bucky steps through, looking tired but happy. Much happier than he’d been when he’d left, so caught up in his emotions as he was. “Good class?” Steve asks, bolting the door behind him. 

“Yeah,” Bucky answers with a half-smile, dropping his messenger bag on the couch. He pulls out his laptop, then steps over to the desk to plug it in. “It’s all yours,” he says, looking back at Steve and gesturing to the laptop. 

Steve nods, pulling out the chair at the desk and settling in. Bucky moves around behind him—and suddenly the apartment feels whole again, as though it had been missing something and Steve just hadn’t realized. Bucky’s warm, steady presence. 

“Password is my mother’s maiden name, then nineteen-seventeen,” Bucky says as Steve opens up the laptop, before the man disappears into the bathroom. Once again, Bucky only partially closes the door behind himself, and Steve can hear the sounds of him having a pee and then washing his hands in the sink. It’s oddly close, intimate.

Steve opens the laptop, types in the password, and pulls up the information.

Bucky coos to his cat as he makes his way back out to the kitchenette. He’s kicked off his shoes, leaving him barefoot, and the hem of his jeans drags along the tile. He makes himself a glass of ice water, then makes one for Steve as well without being prompted.

“ _The Shining_?” Bucky asks as he walks over, noting the book Steve had abandoned face down on the couch. “You like it?”

“Mmhm, it’s grisly,” Steve answers, turning to look back at his friend. Bucky hands him his drink and then sits down on the arm of the couch, positioned so he can see the laptop over Steve’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I love that shit,” Bucky says, then laughs. “That probably says something horrible about my brain.”

Steve snorts, then takes a sip of his water. As he looks through the information on the laptop once again, he wonders what he’s going to do. Thinks about Natasha. “Buck, I need to ask you something.”

“What’s that?” Bucky gives him a smile, but he sounds unsure.

“I feel like if I took this information and…”

“No.”

Steve frowns, swiveling around in the desk chair to fully face Bucky. “I didn’t even finish…”

“You want to take the file back to Avenger’s Headquarters. Or to Stark,” Bucky says, mouth set in a firm line. “And I say no.”

“No, not there,” Steve clarifies, but then sighs. He already has a feeling the answer to this is going to be ‘no’ as well. “I was wanting to take it to Natasha. Natasha Romanov. She has access to back channels—if someone can get some real information from this, then she can.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, just stares, and the silence seems to linger. 

“I trust her,” Steve puts in. “She won’t turn you in, not if I explain… We don’t even have to give her your location.”

And he expects Bucky to point out the flaw in that as soon as he says it. _He_ can see the flaw. Bucky’s location is right there in all of the information he’s gathered, in the places he’s been approached and attacked by Hydra agents. All upstate New York. 

However, what Bucky says is: “She already knows my location.”

“Wh-what?” Steve stutters, not quite comprehending.

“She knows,” Bucky repeats. “At least, she _knew_. She found me not long after I was… better. Or starting to get better. I was at the old apartment in Albany.”

“What do you mean, she knows?” Steve asks, both confused and betrayed. 

“She knows,” Bucky says again, shrugging. And even though his tone is passive, he keeps his eyes averted to the floor and away from Steve. He knows Steve’s upset. “I came home from work, and she was in my apartment. I thought she was there to take me in, or kill me. One or the other. So I, uh—we fought. Tore up that damn apartment.”

Steve knows he’s staring gob smacked. “We were looking for you,” he says. “If we found you…”

“I said if she told anyone where I was, if she told _you_ where I was, I’d gut her like a fish,” Bucky says, his tone hard as steel, almost scary. But then he looks up and meets Steve’s gaze, and his expression softens. “I mean, we both knew I was lying, but…” He pauses to let out a morbid chuckle. “I got to apologize for hurting her, then turned right around and threatened to kill her, ha.”

“Huh?” Steve asks, unsure what else to say.

Bucky opens his mouth as though to say something further, but is interrupted by a knock on the door. Steve frowns, while Bucky swings his head around to stare.

“Are you expecting someone?” Steve asks, sure to keep his voice low.

“I.. It’s Friday,” Bucky says, which isn’t an answer, but then he’s digging in his pocket for his cellphone. It’s small, simple, obviously cheap. “What time is it?” he asks himself, before checking the time on his phone and muttering, “Shit…”

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, standing up from the chair as Bucky stands from the arm of the couch. Bucky makes a frantic gesture for Steve to back up, then continues to make it even as Steve starts backing away. 

Then, from outside the door… “James, it’s me. Are you alright?”

It takes Steve a moment to place the voice, but when he does he understands Bucky’s panic. It’s June, from the deli. Steve’s eyes flit around the apartment, taking in his shield propped up against the bookshelf. He grabs it up quickly, wincing at the metallic sound it makes, and dashes with it into Bucky’s bedroom. He hears Bucky slam the laptop closed, then begin undoing the deadbolts on the door.

“Hi there.” Steve can hear Bucky from inside the bedroom. He carefully places his shield inside the closet along with his suit, then sits down on the bed to wait for Bucky to handle things. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” June greets. “Are you alright? I heard a lot of shuffling…”

“Yeah, m’fine. Just, it’s not really a good time,” Bucky answers.

“Are you not feeling well?” June asks. Steve can hear the frown in her voice.

“Yeah,” Bucky lies smoothly. Or perhaps it’s not even a lie. Steve can’t say he knows. “It’s not been a very good day, you know? Not really feeling up for dinner. I’m sorry, I should have called, saved you the trip.”

 _Oh, so that’s why she’s here_ , Steve realizes. But June’s having none of it. “You should at least eat a little bit, honey. You know you’ll do better. And you don’t need to lose any weight—you’re finally starting to look healthy.”

Bucky gives a long-suffering sigh. “June…”

“I’ll just put this in to heat up. It’s chicken and rice, nice and bland. Shouldn’t bother your tummy,” she says. Steve can hear her footsteps on the tile in the kitchen. 

“June.” Bucky again. “It’s really just… It’s not a good time right now.”

June huffs at him. “If you promise me you’ll eat a little bit, I’ll leave you be. This just has to stay in for ten minutes.” Steve can hear beeping, assumedly from the oven. Or maybe the microwave. June continues, “Have you taken something for pain? Or _enough_ for pain?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, though Steve is almost sure he’s lying. Bucky’d _just_ been in the bathroom, and Steve definitely would have heard him take something. He’d been able to hear the man’s piss splash into the toilet. He would have heard pill bottles rattle, too. 

June sighs, clearly not buying it either. Steve hears her footsteps on the tile of the kitchenette again, then…

“June. Hey, wait. _June_!”

Steve realizes what’s happening a second too late. June heads for Bucky’s bathroom to get medicine, which sends her walking right past Bucky’s bedroom. Her eyes land on Steve, and she stops abruptly, staring at him in surprise.

“Shit,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve stands, readying to start backpedaling his way out of this. Or start digging his own grave, one of the two. How do they explain Captain America sitting in her friend’s bedroom? He’s coming up empty on excuses.

However, June twists to look at Bucky and hisses, “Why didn’t you just _tell_ me you had company?”

“Uh…” Bucky says, looking caught. 

And then she turns back to Steve, gives him a wide smile, and says, “It’s nice to see you again… I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

Steve doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, he’s so relieved. At least she doesn’t recognize him as Captain. “Good to see you, too, ma’am,” he says, and briefly meets Bucky’s perplexed stare. Then, he lies, “My name’s Sam.”

June gives him a shit-eating grin, then turns the same smile on Bucky. “Well, I’ll just get out of your hair,” she says.

“Your…” Bucky starts, gesturing toward the casserole dish on the kitchen counter.

“Keep it. You still need to eat, and Sam might like some dinner, too,” she says, stepping back over to give Bucky a hug. He hugs her back, but only with his flesh arm. “Remember,” she adds. “In the oven for ten minutes.”

“Alright,” Bucky agrees, before walking her to the door.

Steve leans against the bedroom doorframe, watching as Bucky goes to let her out. She doesn’t leave when he opens the door, though. Instead, she stands on her tiptoes and whispers into Bucky’s ear, her hand tiny against his thick bicep. Whatever she says makes Bucky choke.

“No,” he says, shaking his head vigorously. “It ain’t like that. Not now.”

“Just…” She sighs, and Bucky takes a step back. She turns her gaze on Steve and asks, “ _You’ve_ got some, right?”

“What?” he counters, confused.

She sighs again, sounding agitated. She begins digging in her purse, mumbling, “Here, just, I think I still…”

She’s discrete when she pulls it out of her purse and slips it into a pocket on Bucky’s jeans, but Steve can hear the crinkle of foil. He feels a blush crawling up his face and coloring his cheeks.

“Just in case,” she says, finally stepping across the threshold to leave. “You never know.”

Bucky looks like he wants to slam the door behind her, but instead he says, “Thanks.”

June blows him a kiss and waves goodbye before disappearing, and Bucky mutters a quiet ‘goodnight’ before shutting and deadbolting the door. He leans back against the door afterward, his head making a hard _thump_ against the wood as he drops it back.

“What’d the hell she mean, ‘see you _again’_?” Bucky asks, staring across the apartment at Steve, eyes wide.

But Steve’s already asking, “Did she just give you a prophylactic?”

Bucky opens his mouth, blinking, before he reaches in his pocket. The foil crinkles when he pulls it out, and it’s very obvious what it is. Still, Bucky squints at it and reads, “Trojan BareSkin.”

There’s a beat of silence, but then Steve can’t keep it in anymore. He laughs, just a little. Just an embarrassed, hiccupping giggle. However, the noise makes the corners of Bucky’s lips quirk up, turning his distraught expression into one of startled amusement. Then they’re both laughing; Steve collapsing down on the couch, while Bucky tosses the condom onto the desk and covers his face with his hands.

“She can be a little, uh… overbearing,” Bucky eventually manages through his laughter. 

“A little?” Steve says, sarcastic. But then, “She just cares about you. Wants you to be safe.”

Bucky chuckles, coming over to sit on the couch next to Steve. “Remember those pamphlets from the war?” he asks. “ _Don’t forget, put one on before you put it in._ ”

“God, stop,” Steve says. He’d just been getting his giggles under control, and now he’s sniggering all over again. When he looks over, Bucky’s smiling at him.

“You never answered me,” Bucky points out after a moment. “You saw her before?”

“Yeah, she approached me in the deli,” Steve says. “She thought I was a Russian agent.”

Bucky lets out an exasperated huff. “And she, what? Just walked up to you?”

“She was armed. The deli was empty,” Steve says.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Goddamnit.”

“She said you taught her how to shoot.”

“Yeah, well, I almost got her killed once. I’m trying to avoid a second go-round,” Bucky tells him. “She’s dumb as rocks, though. No sense of self-preservation. It’s like she’s _trying_ get herself killed.”

“Mmm,” Steve hums. “That’s not nice to say. She brought you dinner and everything.”

“Huh, she did bring dinner, didn’t she?” Bucky muses, before getting up and lumbering into the kitchenette. Steve watches as he puts the casserole in the oven to heat, and meets Bucky’s eyes when the man leans back against the kitchen counter. “So,” Bucky says. “Did she run her mouth? Is she how you found me?”

“She talked a lot, but no,” Steve says. “I’d already found you. I was just driving through and saw you working. The prosthetic kinda gave you away.”

Bucky’s silent for a long moment, before he says, “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Steve shakes his head, no.

Bucky sighs. “I try to keep the arm covered, but it gets so damn hot in the summer. Some days I can and some days I can’t, I start feeling woozy and sick. Like I’m gonna pass out.”

“Overheated,” Steve says, nodding. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, then shakes his head. “So, you just happened to find me? Fucking hell…”

“The stars were aligned,” Steve says.

“Don’t do that,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. 

“Well?” Steve asks, as though to say, _how do you explain it?_ When Bucky doesn’t reply, Steve adds, “She said you told her about me.”

Bucky raises his brow. “Really? Well,” he says, and shrugs. “Not _you_ , but… Yeah, I did.”

Even though the words are confusing, Steve understands. “Be careful,” he cautions. “I gave her an hour, and she gave me half your life story.” 

“I know,” Bucky says with a wry smile. “She was the first person that really befriended me after everything. And I—I mean, I’m a mess now, but back then? There were days I didn’t know up from down, thought the world was gonna fall out from underneath me. But that woman was always just _there_. She’s a damn saint. Dumb as rocks, but a damn saint.”

Steve smiles, suddenly feeling melancholy. “I’m glad she’s been here, then.”

Bucky nods. “And I know I told her shit I probably shouldn’t have, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Somedays I just needed to hear that I wasn’t insane, and that it was okay.” He takes a deep breath and scrubs his hands over his face. Suddenly, the mirth from moments ago seems miles away. Bucky finishes, “I needed to hear that what happened had happened, and I felt how I felt, and that it was okay.”

“I understand,” Steve says. “And you got me now, too. We’ll figure this out, and it’ll be alright.”

Bucky gives him a gentle smile, and Steve’s chest suddenly aches. Bucky’s eyes are bright under the lights of the kitchenette, and the forearm of the prosthetic gleams. He has his hair tied up off his neck, and his jeans are riding low on his hips. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, an exhausted slump to his body. 

He’s so beautiful, Steve wants to cry. 

“Why you looking at me like that?” Bucky asks, frowning.

“No, nothing,” Steve says. Then, because Bucky clearly doesn’t buy it, “I’m just really glad you’re here.”

Steve gets another soft smile for that. Bucky takes a breath, opens his mouth as though he’s going to speak, then closes it. Steve waits silently for him to find his words. Eventually, Bucky says, “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been all over the place today. It’s not you—I just… I don’t have a good reason.”

Steve nods. “It’s alright. This is a lot. I know.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” Bucky says. “I just don’t want you to think I’m upset. Or I’m not happy you’re here. I’ve wanted you here for, God… So damn long.”

“All you had to do was find me,” Steve tells him, quiet.

“It was unrealistic, I thought. Ridiculous. Just another reason I was insane,” Bucky adds, eyes on the floor. “But now you’re here, so maybe I wasn’t so insane after all.”

“I’m here. And you’re not insane,” Steve assures him. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“You staying here again tonight?” Bucky asks, eyes meeting Steve’s again. His gaze seems wet, and Steve wonders if he lives perpetually holding back tears.

“Yeah, if that’s okay,” Steve answers. “I checked out of the hotel I was at.”

“Of course,” Bucky says, nodding. Then, after a pause, “I’ll get the couch pulled out again for you. I’m just, I know we used to sleep together—or I mean, in the same bed. But I’m just not ready for that right…”

“Buck, you don’t gotta explain yourself to me,” Steve says, leaning forward on the couch. “It’s your apartment. It’s your bed.”

“I know, but…” Bucky says, before trailing off with a frustrated grunt. He turns toward the oven with that, back to Steve, and checks the timer.

And Steve thinks about his earlier words _: I needed to hear that what happened had happened, and I felt how I felt, and that it was okay._ “Hey, Buck?”

Bucky grunts in acknowledgement. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure out what’s going on here. I ain’t gonna leave here till I know you’re safe. Everything’s gonna okay.”

“You don’t gotta do this, Steve,” Bucky murmurs, then heaves a deep sigh. “I’m never gonna be safe. I’m on the run. I’m a war criminal.”

“Then I guess I won’t ever leave,” Steve quips.

The timer for the oven chooses then to go off, but Steve still hears Bucky’s grousing: “You fucking dumb punk…”

Steve just grins to himself.

~*~

They eat dinner sitting next to each other on the couch, watching reruns of crime shows on the TV as they eat. Even though they’re reruns, Steve’s never seen them before. They’re interesting, if a bit predictable. 

Al lies curled behind Bucky on back of the couch, watching them eat in rapt attention. When Bucky begins feeding him the last bits of chicken left on his plate, Steve realizes why. He can’t help but laugh, watching the little cat happily lick his chops. 

“I know,” Bucky says with a grin. “He’s spoiled.”

Bucky offers Steve a glass of wine when he pours himself one, but Steve shakes his head. “Doesn’t do anything for me.”

“It helps me relax. A little, at least,” Bucky says, leaving his Moscato on the counter and heading toward the bedroom. Steve knows what he’s after, having already watched him drink and smoke on his balcony. 

And that makes sense, Steve supposes. Bucky shakes the pack of cigs at him when he emerges from the bedroom, clearly offering, and Steve frowns. “I haven’t smoked one of those since I had a prescription for them,” he says.

Bucky snorts. “Shit, that’s right. Your asthma cigarettes,” he says, heading for the balcony. Al trots quickly behind him. 

Steve makes up his mind. You only live once—or maybe twice, in his case. “Why not,” he says, and follows Bucky out onto the balcony. 

Bucky tries to offer him the plastic patio chair, but Steve refuses by sitting on the floor and leaning his back against the sliding glass door. Bucky glares at him, but eventually relents and sits down in the chair. He shakes a cig out for Steve then one for himself, and then lights them both up. Steve coughs on that first drag, not used to the feeling in his lungs anymore. Bucky laughs at him, while Al jerks in Bucky’s lap, startled by the noise. 

“Jerk,” Steve mutters, but manages not to cough the second go around. In fact it burns sweet, reminiscent of an older time.

They sit in silence for a bit. It’s strangely comfortable, even after everything. Bucky’s quiet sigh as he relaxes is everything to Steve, and Steve finds him sipping his wine when he looks over. He’s poured it into a coffee cup, odd, but then maybe he doesn’t have any clean wine glasses. The cup is white, with the words _Hot Stuff_ written in block print across the side. _Indeed_ , Steve thinks. 

He’s somehow sure the cup came from June.

Bucky suddenly speaks into the silence. “Go ahead and call Natalia.”

Steve blinks. “Natasha?”

“Yeah. Romanov. Sorry, she was Natalia when she was mine,” he says, which makes Steve cough on his smoke again. Bucky doesn’t seem to realize what the problem is and simply continues talking. “But don’t… She’s free of these people, and she doesn’t owe me a damn thing. So leave her be if she wants nothing to do with this.”

Steve swallows, nodding, then asks, “When she was yours?”

Bucky sits up at that, frowning at him. “She’s never told you?”

“I said I didn’t know,” Steve says. “She never told me she found you.”

“No, that’s not…” Bucky pauses, sighing. “You said you have my Hydra files. I was a Red Room operative for a bit. Did you not notice the timeline on that?”

And no, Steve hadn’t. It hadn’t seemed pertinent at the time. But now, the pieces are beginning to slot together.

“I had three girls that were mine,” Bucky says. “That I oversaw and trained and took into the field. Natalia was one of them.”

Steve closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No. She’s never said anything,” he says, though suddenly he’s rehashing her skill, thinking about the way she fights and moves. Yeah, he sees it.

“She’s a good girl,” Bucky says. “You really shouldn’t contact her. She’s finally free of this, and if she ends up with a target on her back again because of me…”

“I’ll let her decide,” Steve says. “She’s not going to do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

Bucky grins, a soft and private thing. “True ‘nough.”

And Steve can’t help himself. “She was _yours_ , you said? Your girl?”

Bucky’s silent for moment, but he turns a glare on Steve worthy of death itself. “Are you implying…?” he asks eventually.

“I just…”

“She was twelve,” Bucky says. “I ain’t no pervert.”

“She grew up,” Steve says, which judging from Bucky’s expression is the wrong thing to say.

“I’m gay, Steve. And at the time, after everything, the last thing I wanted was anyone anywhere near me,” he says, deadly blunt. “If you have my files, then you gotta know that. You know what happened. Stop dancing around it.”

Steve takes a deep, steadying breath, then nods. “Yeah, okay Buck,” he says. And then, because words fail him—or maybe because they don’t seem good enough—he extends his hand, palm up, an offering. Bucky looks at it for a long moment before finally placing his hand on Steve’s and lacing their fingers together. Steve’s chest aches, and he closes his eyes, gently squeezing Bucky’s hand.

Bucky finishes his cigarette, then puts it out between his metal fingers and lays it in the ashtray. He takes Steve’s as well once Steve is finished and lays it next to his own, two parallel butts on the glass tray. Steve doesn’t realize he’s stroking Bucky’s hand with his thumb until after he’s already started, it’s such an instinctive maneuver. But Bucky’s eyes are closed, his hand relaxed in Steve’s. He doesn’t seem to mind to show of affection. 

“They took the girls away from me eventually. I don’t remember exactly when—I know it’s in the files. The girls were grown,” Bucky speaks up into the quiet. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “They’d fried my brain so much I’d gotten confused, forgot where they came from. I thought they were my daughters. I got real soft about it all.”

“Oh, Buck…” Steve breathes.

“So if it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t just you I didn’t remember,” Bucky says with a sad laugh. “I tried to kill my own daughter on that bridge, too.”

And once again, Steve doesn’t have words. He just pulls Bucky’s hand to his face, presses his lips to the skin and breathes against him. Bucky tenses minutely before relaxing again, then lets his head fall to the side to look at Steve. He looks exhausted, drained, and Steve finds himself saying, “You’re still my guy. My best guy. Even if you’re not ready for, what did you say? Anyone to be anywhere near you. You’re still it for me. I just want you to know that.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, just stares back with a blank expression, and Steve’s stomach roils.

“I just wanted you to know,” he repeats. “I just wanna be here. I still care about you. With everything I got.”

There’s another beat of silence, before the corner of Bucky’s lip quirks up. “I love you, too, asshole,” he murmurs, soft, so quiet it almost drifts off with the wind. 

But Steve hears him, and his heart clenches in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much loved. <3


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